I'm calling this "a piece" rather than a poem or a book because I'm experiencing it like a work of art, but I'm also touching it, holding it, reading it like a newspaper, wondering how long I will own this before the newsprint starts to yellow and the blue becomes a less-vibrant blue-green. It's almost like haptic poetry, engaging multiple senses at once; even in the layout and the way it looks on the page, with blurred words, a visual mist, and Photoshop-bent, sometimes illegible text. What appear to be cyanotype prints of flowers, hands, sports figurines, and bobby pins perforate or act as backgrounds to the text. Throughout "Walking through mist" the speaker weaves in notions that words are lies, and poetry is a lie, and we should not trust words. Is that spider this writer, this speaker, or you or me or anyone who makes anything? We make things and people take things from them, spinning their own stories about them. Language, what we think of as concrete and structured, turns out to be just as moldable and mutable as any other raw material.