A poem, 'Sleepless in Ryde', towards the end of the poems, has a quoted subtitle from Kafka from his diaries 1910-1923, in Polish, translated into English,
A void separates me from everything/ and so I don't even go near the edge. This is rich enough already: Kafka quoted in Polish on the Isle of Wight, and the short poem opens this up to,
Other poems summon up the past and there is throughout the book a starkness of image, an engagement with life where it hurts. The journal part of the book, about a third of it, moves from a line such as
I feel closer to ghosts than to the living to a more laidback anecdote:
The more intense past never disappears, though, from the present, and this is a book, its poems especially, that, with the others here, I hope will circulate widely. We need such poetry.