Poets write because it is their profession; once published they are likely to continue being published until their liver or their heart gives out. Hence the explanation for the fifth poetry collection of John Logan, Professor of English at SUNY, Buffalo, formerly poetry editor of The Critic and The Nation. These poems about gentle loves (wife, son, friend, Hawaii), occasional whimsy that doesn't even approach the near side of irony (as in the long ode, ""Heart to Heart Talk with My Liver""), have that complete lack of urgency possible only for those submerged in cloistered academia where there have been no blacks, no Vietnams, no Women's or Gay Liberation -- a '50's idyll where the biggest event is the loss of one's virginity; even the poetics (chiefly a series of line breaks so unpredictable that it achieves its own uncertain interest -- where will the breath come next) are secondhand, surprisingly often absent of any poetic taste: ""I think you'll Fred I am dead right./ Which is preferable to being dead. Right?"" Uhhhhuh.