Coming late to Tim Wood’s exhilarating collection of poems, OTHERWISE KNOWN AS HOME is not the reason for my dizziness. Instead it’s the good pressure of play on the surface of each poem in the three collections bound here that accounts for it. In little moments (“…our home/Rushes awake” and “Love returns us”) the sometimes ecstatic celebration pauses briefly in a syntax familiar enough that I catch my breath. Surprised by words that span all three collections (frayed, sequins and rust) there isn’t time to look for a grounding, not time to formulate one, and soon the desire for such a mooring also vanishes, because the party is ongoing, is here, now, and in what lies ahead-- in the next line, the next sonnet. Rambunctious and tender, under the heady playfulness, a rigor. And under the rigor, a delight. A delight that knows itself to be steady, sturdy. As if love, steady and sturdy, has been one’s home.