As In Every Deafness, Graham Foust’s first collection, sounds the depths of need and loss through narcotics and the bleak interiors of winter. Although suspended in indefinite, sometimes desperate states of desire, these spare poems move toward an honest recognition of the damage incurred: “Welcome, autumn, / to my room / of empty things. // Welcome to a room / like you.”

“Though As in Every Deafness recalls the wintry meditative intensity of William Bronk, it’s a new millennium: ‘Our economy proceeds / as if life were an unlearning.’ Graham Foust has an unerring sense of the exact contours of a particular thought and is able to express them with mathematical precision and emotional delicacy; yet pushing against lyric constraint is wildness, uneasiness, sometimes terror.” —Susan Howe

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