An album of lavish residuals, erros is a somewhat song . . . in the last of the light, the disassembling light. Schuldts rich play with language is always awarepainfully aware, erotically awareof its mortal stakes. These are the poems Hopkins would have written were Hopkins a skeleton, a faint web of salt on a dirty stone, a nakeshift, a sakesbelieve. And with Hopkinss sense of humor, too: such delight in the final turning of a phrase, a body, a breath. erros is, in Schuldts perfect reckoning, l=u=n=g=u=a=g=e made violablehollow-bright. G.C. Waldrep