Sometimes when I read Stacy Szymaszek I feel that I am watching colors in the sky. I want to say what she says, "ground me in your palette / and I can hang on." Cause once again in these poems Szymaszek brings the full emotive soundscape of the gai flaneur so versed in their time, they dare imagine behind it. Like time was a televised game of tennis where you look into the past then back to the future, to the bye bye beyond-the-horizon of what we can be, back and forth. The present is the poem, "watched by every human love", formed and styled with the obsession of a lover. Casual obsession -- is that a thing? The voice of Szymaszek is everywhere hovering over the object of the word. Could Auden have imagined these sonic "with-it sermons" and the prismatic frenzy of her collage, the mystical sum of Real where dreams of summering & poet-adulting meet the street of "dumpsters as entry to / and exit from time". Szymaszek writes like she loves this planet.