"Congratulations asshole / You’ve detached yourself from life / Seventy-eight percent of the way / The hard part is still to come / So do you want another shot At decoding the echoes / Of the rattling pebbles / Or would you rather sit there / Letting the faucet run / Until it starts to snow?"
Could Hoks' fourth collection of poems be his best collection of poems? Many are saying so. I recommend reading all four books in a row, in a field, after a storm, with a notepad nearby, and an old radio, playing a station you'll never be able to locate again.
Strange, funhouse poems from the elastic castle of middle age. I forget who described whose poems as dancing over the abyss. Well, sometimes, the line breaks here skid over that abyss the slide back to the kitchen with a wink. The book seems built to bring us to “Poem for Wendy’s Eyes,” into a moment where the whole idea of possibility in the world is annihilated and reborn in every blink of the beloved. I know reviewers are supposed to maintain some kind of equipoise. What if they don’t?