These are crafted poems, honed poems. Like a fence made from stone, these poems. They have heft to them, the feel of something old and substantial, a durable quality that can withstand the rains and snow, winds. They occupy a line going up the hill and disappearing over the horizon. "There's a flight of birds furling and glancing/Over the city as the wineglass musician/(Is there a word for that?)/Sets up his folding table and tunes his crystal chalices [...:]." One can think of Hughe's CROW, at times, and Marvin Bell's Dead Man, as books and poems that touch what Galvin is doing here with his hovering presences, 'the Mastermind' and the 'Members of the Board.' This is a collection that is thematically drawn out from beginning to end -- something I've noticed more often in poetry books these days, a trend to a kind of poetic or lyric novelizing. (Perhaps that has always been the case, now that I think of it, for how many collections I consider worthy also have this unified field in which they stand. So I must concede that poets have for many years been pursuing this hidden novelisitic intent.) And here there is always the writing, which looks easy at times but that shows us only how hard it is to write this way: seamless, free from the inelegant strains of artifice.