Tales of plasters and other aspects of the fabric of life feature in this collection of poetry. There are various episodes of emotional injury and subsequent attempts at wound management, including a lengthy documentation of the escapist quest for the holy spectacles. Alongside this, there are further investigations into the author's relationship with art, his father, football, spuds, railways and sack racing.
Hegley is one of those poets who people always tell me that I’ll enjoy and who I’ve always found to just be fine. And this is another just fine collection.
I don’t think I’d go out of my way to recommend it to anyone, but if you’re a poetry fan then you’ll probably find something you like. I’m still annoyed that he said “lend” instead of “borrow” when writing about libraries, though.