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If we can all agree that poetry, at least the stuff we choose to read, is not the pastoral conceit we were taught in high school but the spit, venom, and tears that come from our real flesh and blood lives, then Christopher Yeates has provided a welcome addition to the world of poetry. In this collection, Yeates maps out a chart of his own troubled universe. But the pathos in Yeates' writing shouldn't be called wistful. He doesn't sit at home stewing like Emily Dickinson or dream of being pulled into the breast of Jesus like Gerard Manley Hopkins. Instead, he strikes out across the ocean and...