My City is a Murder of Crows

Here is a book where a love of language doesn’t turn into mere technique, where craft doesn’t degenerate into mere cleverness, where self-awareness doesn’t slide into mere self-consciousness. Nikita Parik’s poems map cities and bodies, journeying past exoskeleton to hushed interior, leaving a welter of poignant images in their wake—an itr-seller ‘with old eyes’, a…