Percesepe's poetry seems straightforward but is as complex as flowers, as summer shade and layers of snowfall, available to all but folded around secrets only broken lovers or philosophers grasp, and contained by no borrowed forms but original truths and no meter but the throbs of a heart. He here assays breakfast making and love making and loss and memory and time and husbands and wives and offspring and always, always, the elegance of the line, the object plain or sublime or both, the landscapes of sex, sorrow and high style.
Gary Percesepe drops you into an ambiguous world and pulls you back again, still reeling. He does it so deftly, you don't even realize you're bleeding until it's over.
Heather Cox, author of California King