James Berger takes up the question with a sly, ironic wit that interrogates the idea of poetics and subjects his own assumptions and biases to a ruthless and delightfully honest self-critique. Many poets will see their own agon reflected here. "My project is to slog/ my mortality in the dried vein// of lyric, and to claim// at last my incapacity// as my own." Yet this is not a poetry of exhaustion, but of self-renewing vitality: Yeats' foul rag and bone shop or Manny Faber's termite art, restless, eating away at its own boundaries. Subversive and disarming, Berger charts his development as a poet with humor and panache. It makes for one hell of a ride.