In Winter (Mirror), his ninth volume of poetry, Paul Hoover writes of ceaseless change in life and culture, seeking to capture “the unrelenting / rush of things / in their freezing.” These poems glide seamlessly from philosophy to family to American landscapes, all observed with keen wit as well as melancholy. Gillian Conoley has accurately referred to the “appetitive inclusionary impulse” of Hoover’s work. Yet for all its exuberance, Winter (Mirror) expresses quiet wonder at the impenetrable surfaces of experience: “Simple things like bread, / you can’t even think about them.”

“There is a cool precision in these poems, a striking aptness in the marrying of word to word. And in many of them, there is an unexpected tenderness only half-masked by Hoover’s allegiance to exploring and mapping language’s inherent imperfection.” —Mary Jo Bang on Viridian