I've been reading Larry Smith's work for over 20 years. That's long enough to make his work seem like it's always been there, and maybe that's because the people Larry writes about are ones I recognize: mill workers and farmers, waitresses and librarians. He writes about family and everyday concerns. Sometimes those are scrambled eggs. Sometimes they are snow birds. He is a very tactile poet.
This new book shows someone who is not afraid to change, even after many books. Along with his normal Zen sparks, there's a joyful surrealism here. Even the most black and white, photographic poems don't take themselves too seriously and open us up.
Smith's people spend a lot of time waiting. They wait for money, for night, or for the dark laughter of an epiphany to hit as a hard as "a busload of bibles." These poems exist right outside of town in a peddler's encampment where fairy tales and bad luck mingle with white bread and pennies. These are magical riddles made up of the real and the nearly so. Feast on them and dance.