Behold the animals, spooking at the water, haunting the field. Behold the field, writhing with blood, a gorgeous roiling horror. Behold the bloodhorse, mouth dripping with juice and psalms. Behold Ryan Downum's I Wear My Face in the Field, a precise gore inside of which I feel as held as I do torn. As I read, I taste copper. I hold my breath. It's a long walk into the tender-violent chaos of flesh and flora, a field of a poem that might just be endless in its unfolding. Wade in, right up to your waist - and trust me, keep going: "it's like getting to the haunt of a thing." Is this decomposition? Is this regeneration? Will the field ever be the same?

- JJ Rowan, author of a simple verb (Bloof Books)