This is the kind of poet who makes poems out of the trash-strewn streets of small and large towns on the morning after Saturday night. This is the kind of poet who is more likely to be at home on Saturday night, not because he doesn’t love the world, but because he’s too busy working out the various beauty of everything (or if he is out, he’s likely to be sitting by himself in a diner persuading anyone who’ll listen that there’s nothing romantic about it). This is the kind of poet who lets all the mess in, unfiltered, ungroomed, who doesn’t sort it out and stack it up, but generously and lovingly considers each thing and person. He grinds no axe, he ticks no box. The material is left to its own devices, and the greatest surprise of all is the lavish lyricism that ensues.
— Justin Quinn, Tower Poetry