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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
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