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