Walking the Earth is a book of poems that cycles and repeats, it is an enigmatic road. Footsteps, paths, a vacuous sky, an elusive destiny. It could be the anomie of modern life, or even a post-apocalypse. To live, to keep walking, is the quiet exhortation: “Here begins the very hesitation / that obliges them to live.”
   “A body separated from its soul.” Blankly denotative images, especially this one, nonetheless elicit a sound, a type of call. They posit a space, an emptiness — and this void is analogous to the emptiness this poetry fills. That is, in the bleakness, the hollowness, something rings. Walking the Earth is the various resonances of that most distilled, human, and enduring sound.