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If we can all agree that poetry, at least the stuff we choose to read, is not the pastoral conceit we were taught in high school but the spit, venom, and tears that come from our real flesh and blood lives, then Christopher Yeates has provided a welcome addition to the world of poetry. In this collection, Yeates maps out a chart of his own troubled universe. But the pathos in Yeates' writing shouldn't be called wistful. He doesn't sit at home stewing like Emily Dickinson or dream of being pulled into the breast of Jesus like Gerard Manley Hopkins. Instead, he strikes out across the ocean and thrusts himself into the human throng. He revels and rejoices at times; he's often enthusiastic and bawdy, carousing with women and relishing in their allure and softness. This is a chronicle of travel, of frailty, of loss and lust and love and doubt. The writing is toxic yet tender, and with a keen and incisive eye this poet gives voice to the often profound complexities of everyday life.