"Taking on 'our whole silly empire of sorrow,' in which the holy is ever vanishing and the body—eager for more than 'to be entered only metaphorically'—is always trembling, Webster’s poems announce an authentically original voice of astonishing intellectual and formal range, refreshing and disarming in its frankness. The vision here is fierce, intimate, and tireless in its determination to see this life squarely: 'do the sacred miss the profane?' Yes, Webster suggests—but if so, then it is also the case that the body is 'an altar on which you can only lay down so much.' Webster makes of this dilemma a meditation that ravishes with its sheer nerve and everywhere persuades by its commitment to lyric beauty, intellectual rigor, and to the power—at once rescuing and mutinous—of language itself."
—Carl Phillips, author of The Rest of Love
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