<p>"One is led gradually into these poems, which seem so quiet and open at first, like empty streets on the periphery of a city. Soon one realizes that for some time one has been involved in a strong dialectic with Donald Britton's remarkable and inspiring intelligence. By that time it is too late to do anything but enjoy.--John Ashbery </p><p>"Quick and ever resourceful sentences pull in swerves and pratfalls: where are we? It's the first-person singularity of Donald Britton's longing, and we are pulled there, here, whatever, forever and a day."--Marjorie Welish </p><p>"Donald slouched and giggled among us, a guy among guys, in an often silly and dizzying era. And here he is, in these exquisite poems--to echo Frank O'Hara, just one of his poet heroes--the center of all beauty. Imagine!"--Brad Gooch</p> <p>"He didn't use words to write a poem. He wrote from inside language - as from inside a mirror or photograph - because he lived there as much as he inhabited the world. Many of the poems are haunted by Britton's awareness that he lived on the cusp of eternity ("sadness surges in, /a passing-windshield light-effect/on the ceiling"). Little did he know that it would grab him so soon."--John Yau "Hyperallergic" </p>