"I Still Go to Bed with Water" sets its readers loose and untended, like all the critters from a menagerie of collected memories. One day cooped up, the next fending for ourselves in oddness. But oddness and strange intimacy is where the poems come to life - each a glimpse at what once was and how it becomes something entirely different in interaction with the reflection. The language here is at turns cryptic, precise, sometimes German, and other times nodding to the flowers of the Romantics.