These poems travel narrow roads deep north, and they take slow boats east, they sail the Nile south, and they safari in Africa, they turn paintings inside out and find our faces there, they long for love long after love let go, they poke fingers in the eyes of the pompous, and they reincarnate Vincent in the suburbs-and they do all this with a quiet mastery of forms borrowed from all quarters of the world, all the while standing in a kitchen cooking quinces, sitting at an office desk after hours turning emails into prayers.
From the review by Mark Tredinnick