EPOCH

I crack at the animal who takes to the sash. Agent of distance like a girl in a pool. November buried in the scores cut into the new season. November sanded of its soft eye & valves. November stunned into flight by an oncoming car, by its own written name. Rhyme in forfeit, out through the smaller mouth, the fresh slicker of rain.

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From Dead Ringer Blows–published by Tilted House.

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Alana Solin is a writer from New Jersey. Her work has appeared in Antiphony, Dunce Codex, Mercury Firs, Tagvverk, Dusie, Second Factory, Annulet, jubilat, and elsewhere. Her chapbook Dead Ringer Blows won the 2024 1BR / 3BATH Chapbook prize from Tilted House and came out in 2025. She is the poetry editor for the literary magazine Nat. Brut.