Keith Inman was a factory worker. He began writing when his fingers wouldn’t hold single strings on his guitar, when he missed the next role in a small-town play, when the piano wasn’t comfortable under his hands, when his voice-teacher reminded him about those same strained half notes. Yet, he needed an outlet for the rhythms in his head. The answer came in a night-school writing class at Niagara College and when Thistledown Press accepted one of his short stories. Around the same time, his teacher suggested he try poetry to “get that flowery shit” out of his work.