The Fox and I.

For his regular readers, much of the familiar is stored within the covers of Charles Edward Eaton's latest book of poems -- the code of colors which suggests meaning in nearly allergoric modes; the images (ranging through casual, garish, and bizarre) which seem to aspire to the art of painting; the periodic tendency toward self-indulgence that must be inevitably accepted in one whose subject matter is the adventure of the esthetic self. What marks this volume, sets it apart from Eaton's other 13 books, is a reluctance, a recurring temptation to cease which becomes, however, finally, with the catalytic fury of some sword imagery, a weariness overcome. The concluding note of "I hear my civilization resting, …