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Dust Habit -- Poems by Trane Devore

Robert Creeley's grandson would have made the old man proud. Devore's poems are shoe-boxes of polaroids and Daguerreotypes, each one tainted and beautiful and alert and alive within the act of being. Each line and phrase breathes rediscovery into the space which Devore gives them; the absence of physical density alters time in the poem, drawing the pieces across the tongue in half speed film. Moments become days and days become breaths.

Voices float freely in and out of Devore's poems, as in an old and smoky room. Sections cobbled from meter, speech, seemingly found text, all fall together into autumnal verse. One hears Creeley, and through him Williams, Oppen and Zukofsky. Give yourself time to spend with the lines, to absorb the depth that so few words can carry. Devore's book is a slow bourbon, a savored chocolate mousse, and a dusty old shoe-box all rolled into one.

--Patrick

Labels: Recommended Reading