I received a rare treat on Monday, one I went to a great bar (Plan B on 10th and Avenue B) and two I got to see Jefferson Navicky read from his new book out on Black Lodge Press Map of the second person sold to me for I think 5 bucks. Jefferson (who I knew of at Naropa) has come into a place with this short chap book that shows the voice of a Wallace Stevens embodiment. What I mean to say is that this prose poem not only shows the economic strategy of the line but puts it in dialect of everyday speech. The line that strikes me as I write this is towards the middle of this slim book “Your tongue pressed you into some other kind of/ sleep, a black deep within the eye, demolishing/ the early hour” slow rain drops of language. He told me he moved out of the city and into the Maine countryside where real time is measured in the breath that is stolen from the air. That these poems had been written in and around the city, but the heart of it seems to work (not only in the poem) but in the fact that this is a writer to reckon with, a reminder of the slow draw of night over day. A new poet? No. The old voice in a young man.