From Vancouver Island to Guantanamo Bay, the Bulkley River to Niagara Falls, Reservations—perturbed, disturbed and reverberated in the echo chamber of the sonnet sequence—broadcasts bursts of clarity from the field of frequencies known as Canadian culture, language, history…

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From the Poetics:

     Call this poem a nest of sonnets: a brood of rhymes and tropes, all squirm and struggle in the lair of received form. Or nesting sonnets, like those Russian babushka dolls: lift one up and find another, and then another, and another. All the same but different. Each one a landfall and a homecoming.
     It’s a good example of how the sonnet often operates for me: as ordering device and breeding grounds. What doesn’t fit in one sonnet, what’s expressed (to mix metaphors further) under the compression of its strictures, pools in my mind and becomes prime real estate for poetic larvae. It’s also a good example of how the stricture and tradition of a form can become figurations, can become content: one of the soundings of “reservations” I heard sounded like “preservation,” as in the preservation of tradition, and another sounded like “reserved,” as in controlled.