I first encountered Ceravolo almost 6 years ago, after first diving into Celan. The odd conjunction proved more fruitful than one might think. Underneath the green lake's awake surface, tense with linguistic wit and ingenuity (so characteristic of the New York School--for better or worse) is a dark depth that resonates long after the verbal fireworks are ashen. How a genuine and humane sorrow comes draped in such life-tuned language is a marvel no budding poet should miss, and for the poet in full bloom, Ceravolo's voice, like wind, will pollinate from afar. What plants spring up in spring are not narcissus around the lake--this lake, Ceravolo's lake, will be surrounded by flowers that are unique, are his own.

Good for the hardcore Ceravolo fan or the uninitiated. Reminds me of hallucinations rendered with the realist's paintbrush. The title poem of the book is evocative of Mexico, where the Ceravolo lived in l960