It's a caf situation.
Be it oriental or merely Eastern European. We can enjoy a tacky menu full of pictures. We are ready to call the waiter and to tap our finger upon a dish, saying "this one." No need for further explanations. The form is weakened here, something weakens it, and that is what we're after.
Poem by poem - where the sense of a path might be disappearing - the path is performed, and we go on.
These manoeuvres span a decade. They are the first movement of the indistinct - a poetic notion mingling with the dumb, but as such laying out the writer's idiom. And so, the book is also a gamble. An assumption that before any attempt at structuring there should be a question mark. A black eye and a trace of pleasure.
Searching is such a curved line, with a point.