Modern poets have a kind of literary autism. Your sped has a script for social interactions, your hack has a script for what he is pleased to call "poems". One script may be about obeying and the other about disobeying, but the revolting effect is the same. Your sped reads that autists struggle to make eye contact and ends up staring at his interlocutors like a cobra. Your hack reads about poetic license and breaks every rule of good prose all at once.

So it is with Sexton. There is no punctuation, all the similes are non sequiturs, and every other verb is a metaphor. Simile and metaphor fight for room as they arrive together, together sink into the same oblivion. There is nothing of poetry here. Not a note of music, not a nudge of rhythm. There is not a single phrase in this book that writes itself on the memory, not a single image that anyone would think to return to.