These poems read like eavesdropping on the voice in the poet’s head in which he is carrying on an internal monologue in an imaginary, private region within, perhaps as a buffer against potential emotional or physical threats—a prodigal son, for instance—or as a barrier that determines the distance to be maintained in communicating with his academic audience from halfway across the world: the rhythms measured, lines cut to fit the great blank concavity of thought clouds.
Hall has some wonderful rhythms but I continually felt he was holding too much back, making the reader guess too much of what was going on in his poems. Second readings definitely rewarded the effort, but in the end I didn't feel the poems or even the sections added up to anything much--not even a sense of the poet.