Coolidge hit his stride right around these years, I believe. This book is a bit of mindfuck. The work oscillates between being realized philosophies (reifications) and polymorphous perverse sensuality. Sort of a Stevensian transposition into the eighties in other words. Few poets could pull that off, but C.C. did here. You want an elegy, a fuck poem, a Bergsonian poem, a death poem, a birth poem?...make up your grocery list and whatever it is you'll find this is one-stop shopping.