I’m struck by the peculiar type of immediacy in these haunting poems. Patently concerned with form, with framing devices and their own making, they teem with life and its contemporary correlatives: toxicity, decay, violence. Queer desire and abjection run through them as if unfiltered, raw. Odd juxtapositions keep me returning to them: “Still Life, Orchestra” is a brilliant arrangement of captivating visual and auditory images that are almost ordinary, yet are transmuted into objects of contemplation by the attention the speaker bestows on them. Menace looms large; the poems, knowingly, offer only provisional respite: “ignorance: what is beyond the barbed wire.” Yet their edges are porous. We’re in America’s here and now (“here comes the random/mass shooter”), where people’s behavior is as determined by virtuous aspirations as by the pressures of call-out culture (“I/had sat by a man/who looked not good/in not good clothes, /to prove my anti-racism”), and then elsewhere, where desire, perhaps, escapes monitoring and commodification: “Friday. Praise Allah and liquor. /Young men are giving free motorcycle rides/to lost queers.” Where is the poem’s edge if it’s elastic enough to include a reader’s commentary on its own imagery? “‘I like the part about pissing,’ he said. […] Then: there was pissing.” The precarious pleasure of pleasing others meets the sting of Eros in “Erotic Slap,” where the smacks on the body-cum-merch (“McLips McZits”) come from all directions: “some hate to make sure we don’t love.” Love and cruelty are curious, if not surprising, bedfellows, and these poems stun in their courage to lie between both.