It is the time of the stupefying. Just when we least expected it, when we thought the show was over, it clonked out into the limelight, and the world was split in two.

The Stupefying is a bruised arm firmly removed from its sling. It isn’t funny ha-ha but funny that-can’t-be-true-but-I-know-it-is. In poems of eavesdropping and invention, deflation and elation, Nick Ascroft’s poetic sensibilities and craft are always surprising, sometimes morally questionable, always a delight. His fifth collection may be his most personal yet, with a sweetness that stings us repeatedly. The Stupefying is not to be missed.