‘Some Hill’
— Reneé Bibby
Nimes’ prose piece is a paradox: it is a tight, compressed, symmetrical, orderly poem about wide, unruly, brachial, and immense expanses of time and space. She starts us in the flint-filled velds of our ancestors where “No one’s from here; no one’s left here.” She sweeps us forward, quickly, to our TV-blue-toned modern times. You may not be able to say for sure when we are, where we are in the poem. Who is this new Hominid? Have all these millennia of evolution taken us anywhere more significant than where we started? A perfect paradox: for all its precision of form, Nimes’ poem doesn’t give tidy answers.