Billeh Nickerson is really hit or miss for me. I admire his writing, he does stark well, he does honest well, he does sexy well. There are two or three poems in this collection that I absolutely love and recommend to all. He's the antidote to people who constantly quote Neruda and Rumi at you.

But sometimes we miss, and I read through a poem without any interest or attachment. Thus goes the last third of this book. So I don't know, how do you rate a collection? The average amount of joy from the whole, or that one brilliant piece you don't want to live without, now you've read it? I guess the answer is, whatever I rate this, I'll pick up his next work without hesitation. ( )