A Broken Bowl a dish stone steps a dancer scattered in grass buried in deserts these things of man and woman an obsidian blade a painted wall these things made us gods in our own right an ancient breastbone ribs held a fire and let go the contagious heart spreading through valleys of the rift the serengeti himalayas a disease to make us gods beasts in love and war turning to watch the infected sky the world going down around us what others have said: "Picture-building poetry doesn't get better than this. Patrick Friesen communicates directly to your imagination. These fragments of a broken bowl are, indeed, much greater than the sum of their parts as they spur imaginal encounters not only with Friesen but with the scattered bits of the reader's self--each piece a new gesture to try on." (Per Brask, on A Broken Bowl) "These are the end days--someone's got a kitchen knife and is 'looking for the government'; the river is a 'filthy transfusion.' Patrick Friesen sings this dark song with beauty and a guttering love. We're long past apology, reconstruction: there's only Friesen's voice--not nearly enough, sure, but the only thing worthy of trust." (Tim Lilburn, on A Broken Bowl)