Lines of verse veer top-speed around corners, producing unexpectedly lucid interrogations: "The sun,/ Then, in a brief// Case blown open,/ Appears. But who is/ Here to have it,/ 2Bang4? . . ." Anger is allowed in these poems, and disillusionment, and a general mistrust of "landscape"--the natural world owned and used--all countered with the anodyne of an inebriate sensibility that loves the liquor in which it bathes, the language by which it collaborates. "I can co-locate here./ I won't digress, not with these/ Metal parts in the desert wind/ Not with a bank of clouds/ Stored on film."
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