The Great Indoors

This book is aptly named, for the world inhabited and described by Winch is claustrophobically interior, involving airless bars, shadowy rooms and dark streets. The poet emerges as an isolated figure, whether abjectly forlorn or contemptuously cynical. The Surrealist flavor of the poems calls to mind Simic and Tate, but what Winch is best at is describing the misery of failure, in love or in living, and he adeptly captures the agitations and anxieties of an unfocused life: ``These days I feel exhausted/ and crazy, like Los Angeles.'' For this poet, a typical day all too often ``collapses/ like a condemned building.'' His antidote? A generous serving of tart irony: ``I live a spine-tingling life/ of delirious sex & intense happiness.'' Winch's wry, understated humor invites the reader to share in an otherwise rueful experience. But at times, the poet appears more interested in striking an attitude or forcing poems from banalities: ``I watch / baseball on t.v. (Yankees 3, Dodgers 0)/ and complain about my cold.'' (Dec.)