The Narcoleptic Yard is above all a book about myths—not a book of myths but a book about them, about the quiet myths of inner and outer spaces, about orderliness and animality, and about what seemingly does not count as cruel since it has already passed into the trite. This is a book that tests discomfort. It is a book about tickling, about pets, about moments perpetually ordained for ignorance, and about the manipulations of pity. The Narcoleptic Yard finds its matter in the uneasy strains of family and erotic love and in the constant, flickering sleepiness that accompanies expected force.
The poems happen beside green-black domestic woods, before wire rabbit cages, in the talk of aunts, and in the nowhere place of speculation; this is a poetics of being lifted-by-the-nape, a poetics of despair in the embodied and in the disembodied, a poetics that finds itself “at home” and yet decidedly not at home in its scavenging practices, its residual noons, in what will be enough.