This book of poems—distinctive in their lyric beauty, imaginative daring, distilled emotion, and ceaseless questioning—explores the mysteries of the flesh in terms both surreal and philosophical, scientific and metaphysical, personal and broadly cultural—the body both as a region, not unlike the mind itself, haunted by a simultaneous distance and nearness, intimating some vast underworld for which we have no language.
From “Snow,” from Sacrum:
In Memory of Jack Myers
I am calling out to you where you sleep off the rest of our night, our chill, our little century, where snow falls as it has never fallen, not here, not with the weight of hours that drug these oaks, that break our dark umbrella at the stem. All day the great book of heaven plunges through the shredder— the book of life, you called it, not sure who or what life noted there, if living was alone the afterworld of books.…