These are the poems of a gentleman, bounded on the one hand by taste and on the other by convention. Between there is not much room to move except in a kind of skating that doesn't really take one far -- beautiful statements on appropriate, received themes; suggestions of an area of questioning which one would never be so untoward as to invade directly. Hence, the crusted corners of the seraph's eyes of a child on drugs, meditations on revolution which, peculiarly, sacrifice poetic amenities but stop short of discursive rigor. The subjects, certainly, are not trivial nor is the intention -- ""sincere"" and ""humane"" are adjectives the poems most ardently beckon -- but the mood is unintentionally trivializing by its very felicitousness. Whatever they talk about, whether they are set up in verse or forthright paragraphs, these works will not stun or harm. Rosenthal himself speaks at the outset of his ""amniotic soul"" and that is the atmosphere of the volume.