An album of lavish residuals, erros is a “somewhat song . . . in the last of the light, the disassembling light.” Schuldt’s rich play with language is always aware—painfully aware, erotically aware—of its mortal stakes. These are the poems Hopkins would have written were Hopkins a skeleton, a faint web of salt on a dirty stone, a “nakeshift,” a “sakesbelieve.” And with Hopkins’s sense of humor, too: such delight in the final turning of a phrase, a body, a breath. erros is, in Schuldt’s perfect reckoning, “l=u=n=g=u=a=g=e” made “violable—hollow-bright.” — G.C. Waldrep
