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David Kirby… Kay Ryan's tiny poems turn out to be full of color and argument, after all. In fact, she makes good writing look so easy that I despair of her influence, just as English schoolmasters once worried that schoolboys liked Keats too much and would ape his sensuousness (if only). Yet Ryan's special talent is for illuminating the known and showing how the unknown defines it, as when she writes of a frozen lake that has its own seasons under the ice or says that Houdini's greatest trick was to emerge from the chains and padlocks as himself.
— The New York Times