‘People travel a lot in these worlds. Ian Seed’s brilliant poems can turn on you at a line-break, snap the trail you thought you were following, shift your direction. Other poems flow effortlessly across line and stanza breaks, so that you drift, as you might follow a stranger up an alley in a town you’ve never visited, for no reason you can discern, for no ordinary explanation you’ll receive. Like the half realised characters in the poems themselves, you are lucidly dreaming: sometimes of miseries, always of mysteries. It’s as though you’ve been living for years in a little room with somebody you’ve never quite met, who never finished that book on phenomenology because it didn’t quite describe water. Leave that to Seed’s title poem; it achieves definition by cutting across water’s flow with a sharp keel, indefinitely.’
 
    — Robert Sheppard
 
‘Luscious wood and smooth steel in language bring breath to the smooth lips young as fire. Ian Seed hears in the skeleton and skin. A rich array of truth is no noise bodied. You hear with him, you see, you taste even the reminiscence and design of what a future might bereave. There is more than only light. A cocktail sconce along the roadside. Always one is listening to how the light touch might unveil a skittering repose. Fiction plinked as outer walls. Is experience enough? The couplets branch and feather wide environs. I don’t think there’s any dying.’
 
    — Sheila E. Murphy
 
‘One of the virtues of Ian Seed’s poetry, and one of its many pleasures for the reader, is its ability to remain not just open to, but also generous and tender towards, the unknown and the strange. As you read this book (in some ways a companion to Rebecca Solnit’s A Field Guide to Getting Lost) you continue to care deeply and to sense that wherever you are going, and however the definition of arrival might be changing in the process, it is well worth the fare.’
 
    — Jeremy Over