“the weather not the weather refuses the codex’s conventions—words tumble across pages as mesmerizing choreography exploding white space into rhythmic momentum of textual constellations accumulating, poem pushing into poem to create enjambed performance of perspectives, distance, landscapes, time. ‘Even the loveliest things are attended by loss,’ and in Royer’s hypnotic book the presence of what is not there makes itself and makes itself again alongside the erasure of what is. Memories engulf as they darkly slip away, figures become a nothingness refusing to settle into shape or state, and ‘the woods/ seem/ foolish/ beautiful and worthless.” — Mel Nichols