Lines of verse veer top-speed around corners, producing unexpectedly lucid interrogations: "The sun, Then, in a brief Case blown open, Appears. But who is Here to have it, 2Bang4?..." Anger is allowed in these poems, and disillusionment, and a general mistrust of 'landscape' - the natural world owned and used - all countered with the anodyne of an inebriate sensibility that loves the liquor in which it bathes, the language by which it collaborates. "I can co-locate here. I won't digress, not with these. Metal parts in the desert wind. Not with a bank of clouds. Stored on film."