I used to shake my head at people who would put books down when nearing the end as though it might stave off the end of their first read's initial enjoyment. Well, I still do; however now, I understand a little bit better, or maybe its that I simply couldn't stop re-reading the poems I had already worked through. What an awful run-on that just was. Regardless, the repeated glances were products of not only amazement but too, of befuddlement.
Eric Baus essentially has created a parallel extension of our own universe. The words are the same. Aren't they? The metaphysical cores of language seem to have morphed. "The To Sound" plays quite a bit with sound. If one were to stare too longly at any page, pulling sight away slowly the words would blur slightly beyond comprehension. All this time, though, still appearing convincingly (truthfully?) as words. The book carries that effect but with sounds. While use drifts away from the common, all the words sound right, and soon enough, you find yourself understanding.
"I say my eyes are quotation marks pulled across the sky, I mean the way a beaten wing is parallel to treading water."
The mostly epistolary forms (written either to Birds or to Sister) build and fall from simultaneously a few stock phrases as a sort of corner stone for reading. Even then, despite all (successful)efforts to portray sentiment with sound and spacing carrying all the weight, old meanings slip through to the foreground sporadically, at times long enough to pun and punctuate.
"...as if wind were a sort of eating. You say something is
always burning, but where is my genus, my species of kindling."
I don't often use the word marvelous.