What happens to an award-winning book? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or does it explode? In this case it probably simply evaporates. I agree with the reviewer who says that writing is just too diffuse and vague. There are moments of brilliance, but they're fleeting, like sparks in a vapor. I've enjoyed reading it, however, because as far as this kind of stuff goes - and in the final saying, it doesn't go very far at all - it's actually not all that bad.
It seems to me that our poets work hard to write poetry in the abstract sense - and prose chunks are a great vehicle for this - and this book doesn't even have a table of contents (What, contents? How passe!) - but few bother to write memorable poems, of a definite shape, with a beginning, middle and end. There is one very, very good poem in this book, which is the only reason it has stuck in my mind, and that I have sought it out again at the public library. I can't quote it in full, and it doesn't survive in parts, but it's called "Swan of Local Colors," and it's on p.33. If you could, do look for it, rescue it, for a moment, from the stacks' oblivion.
Now if only I could convince some of our smarter young poets to return to writing poems!