"His metropolis radiates outward to comprehend Wequalic Park and the Palisades, and his alcatory, portent-free sophistication seems confident enough to accommodate primitive, endearing, and frankly tender tropes and situations, as where a poet faces an ailing mother or a growing son. A perennial drama in this volume is that of an erudite and restlessly modernizing mind confronting pains and peculiarities that no amount of urbanity can assuage. 'The lachrymal apparatus remains.' Shapiro says at one point, and he orchestrates its operations with irony and honesty. The effect is of unforeseen intimacy at the heart of abstraction."
Writer uncredited, reviewed in New Yorker 2007-04-23.
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