RaveThe Kenyon Review... lopes forward in the strutting style of the witnessing and sincere, but gorgeously nonaustere, poet in New York ... gracious to the listening \'you,\' even when it pretends, lightly, to preclude it. Together, these poems are a slow-trickling elegy to Myles’s mother that, as they unravel in long, braided strophes, develop into an extended meditation on loss and desire. The gift of Evolution is its bold depiction of the textually-rendered \'I\' ... Myles’s verse often feels typographically paratactic, with its severing of the line—and, even, the word—and lack of horizontal dips and trails across the page. But this spatial slightness precipitates a lyricized and multivocalic \'I\'-Myles that, clinging to the left margin, is riveting; that restraint and constant, unceasing compulsion to fracture is the nesting place of the unassuming, difficult mourning with which the book walks, daily, as the months change and the mornings grow quieter and, still, like those long, running sentences, nothing changes, and no one returns from the phantasmagoric dream of the \'still in bed,\' asleep—a kind of \'evolution\' enacted, each morning, by the living.
