These poems feel haphazard and jumbled to me, and I kept waiting to settle in and catch the ﬂow of them. Instead I ﬁnished feeling like something logical and grounded had been cut apart and randomized so that there would be moments of insight followed by unexpected zags into something totally diﬀerent. The experience is not wholly negative, as the moments of clarity have deep resonances. Or even just moments that feel like they are coming from somewhere purposefully bottomless, as memory was a gait as constant / as presumption in the age of the / vernacular.
There wasn’t one poem that stood about, but these were the most amount of lines that ﬁt together to me:
from Of Oceans
In this that there will be no sounding some water
part of the world, the morning, without mistake
for sleep how else could they have claimed, bright
sweater, that you’re unfortunate, standing by a tower
daring the mad sea away.
When they put erotic under stone, a bed of hair became
the ocean; when the ocean transformed to another
as likely, I told you, go ahead and sing yourself.
And why, when I shut my eyes I see houses in ﬁelds
I can’t say; but know they are beautiful, lit from
within, song lamps, the heaven in the rooms on ﬁre.