When did I last encounter a book of poems that opened with a prayer? It is complex, tortuous even, surprising and, as I sense his making of it, necessary. And perhaps prayer haunts the whole book, through which there are prose passages holding firm the view steady, one might say, and the forms of the poems are variable to each's purpose.
As reader, I go with the flow of the whole book, am beguiled by the means, by the life of it, by presence. There's an adventure here and the poetry lives.