I’m always scolding Ed for not stepping into the front ranks of American poets, where he belongs, till finally I realize that A. it’s not up to him and B. he’s already there. I could praise his plain speech, his tenderness and loyalty, his incredible memory, his creation of poetic world to draw sustenance from, his devotion to the local, his deep and ancient values, disguised as rebellion and satire, but I want to praise the mystery that is at the heart of his poems, how he can create beauty out of violence, waste and bad rhetoric we are all surrounded by, not unlike the farmers of New Jersey who planted their tomatoes in the raw sewage being disgorged from the giant pipes where the Giants now play football; the best tomatoes his Uncle Frank ate. He has a love of complexity but he dislikes confusion and obscurity. Finally, he’s a poet—and there are very few of them—who brings wisdom to his work. I want to praise in particular “Myer Country Motel,” “Hambone,” “Ancient Music,” “Hi Gertrude,” “September Rain,” and “For Britt.” This is an amazing book.