In Wyatt Prunty's new collection of poems, people either keep their
balance or, doubting it, tip and fall. A small girl struggles to ride
her bike among older children already 'stable as little gyros.'
Ice-skating with friends, a boy suddenly drops from sight, and drowns.
The poet of Paterson stands at the edge of his Jersey waterfall and
knows that 'good balance is belief.' Poising and counterpoising
themselves in settings at once fixed and erosive, the people in these
poems move through 'one long revisionary river that curls back against
itself, as if the only way to move ahead was by deflecting back.'