That fire’s the light our names are carved in.

Ultimately fatigue triumphed over delight.
I sorely need to reread the concluding third of this book as my eyes burned from a forced march of a day. The poet is not to blame. There is a just a desire, a hope to make things better.

The language in this tome is precisely jagged. There are exquisite images here this collection, ones as rapturous as the wounds of Saint Sebastian as evocative as the arc light craters outside Phnom Penh.

Everyone indulge and expiate. ( )

Quick, easy reading, but I can't seem to remember one detail about even one of the poems. ( )

I really, really, really wanted to like this book, which won one of the major prizes-- a Pulitzer or a National Book Award or something. I can't figure it out. ( )