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Eric Elliot's poems will gut you, but keep reading. It is about time a poet came along and stretched out our ribs to clench the meaty heart beneath. Death plays amid these poems. There is a perverse joy in his cruelty, a playfulness beneath images of spattered blood and broken dreams. This book is full of missed opportunities, unspoken goodbyes, the eerie footsteps of that creature waiting to follow you home in the dark, but let him follow. I dare you.I have an unreasonable fear of violent death, so reading these poems is like shock therapy. Truth is, they remind me that we all bleed the same blood but that some of us are blessed--a word I've never used before--to lead lives untouched by real violence (untouched by war, murder, rage). So I should shut up about my fears; they're irrational. But others, yes, so many others, Elliott's poems remind me, have good reason to fear. And I feel for them.