Tilley's poems blend math and nature to make sense of a chaotic world. He makes interpersonal connections through math, tying together experiences of father and son, and between brothers. Even when concepts such as algebra and calculus aren't directly addressed, Tilley still shows a mathematical mind in identifying patterns in nature, as we see in the collection's opening poem, "Down Here on Earth":

The poem is a fitting announcement of the collection's intentions. Tilley draws on nature and geometric patterns before developing a metaphor (the honking) with several possible meanings. It's a commentary on the impersonality of twenty-first-century society, contrasting human nature with animal instinct. It's also representative of Tilley's style. Each of the sonnets has a point, and while they're often filled with terrific figurative language, Tilley doesn't rely too heavily on overwrought metaphors, instead understanding how to write what he wants to say in an economy of words.

There's no shortage of serious subject matters within these pages. Tilley touches on newsworthy and political subjects, like the wars in Gaza and Ukraine, and the absurdity of national politics. He also doesn't shy away from thinking about his own mortality. That's why much of the joy in reading this collection is derived from its humor. Often, it's embedded within an entire poem, as we see in "Sitting on the Throne," in which the author wonders what the world's strongmen think about on the toilet and offers us a closing reminder that there will always be another man who thinks he's Ozymandias. And sometimes he picks small moments, timing them perfectly to add levity to serious subject matters. We see this best in "Writing my Obituary," in which he, quite obviously, tries to write his own obituary, but closes with a laugh rather than a tear:

Constrained by fourteen lines, it can be difficult to explore myriad themes within a single poem, but here, we get an entire gamut of emotions, beginning with a resignation that he must write the obituary because he's the type to correct others when they tell a story, to five simple lines that he writes about himself offering wistful tenderness, and ending with a riotous laugh. He's showing off his range.

The humor, particularly in benign moments, feels like a necessary counterbalance to other, devastatingly sad passages. While the poems explore overarching themes and common topics, they're largely free-standing, though occasionally successive poems tie together to increase their impact. We see this effect in "I'd Not Learned This Meaning of Delta," in which Tilley ties together the mathematical meaning of the Greek letter delta to reveal the carrying of a particular gene meant his granddaughter had a 25% chance of being born with Cystic Fibrosis, and the next poem, "Birthday Balloons," in which he takes the mathematical and turns it into reality, closing with the a set of crushing lines:

Each of Tilley's eighty-one poems is free verse, fourteen lines, occasionally with line breaks but often without. One exception is "She Asked for a Ghazal" which is, technically, a ghazal, though still fourteen lines. The "sonnet" designation is referred to in that poem by the author, and again in the book’s description and on its cover. By definition, these are purely modern free verse, neither Shakespearean nor Petrarchan, not concerned with rhyme scheme or meter. And they sometimes contain a volta (a shift or turn in thought or argument), and sometimes Tilley sticks to one theme, one argument throughout. Perhaps they're better described as one-stanza, fourteen-line poems. Readers holding a traditional definition of a sonnet might bristle at what they find, preferring form over function. Those who find the consistency in form an asset in focusing on language and theme won't care. Poetry has a lengthy history of experimentation with form, so maybe the question an individual reader must ask themselves is: does it matter?

Tilley's poems are an extension of the themes and explorations from his previous collection, Ripples in the Fabric of the Universe (Red Hen Press; 144 pages), but it's not necessary to read the previous collection to understand what he's trying to accomplish and savor the moments in which he tugs at our emotions. There are immense personal stakes often revealed in only a few lines; even when he's being lighthearted, the message comes across clearly: whether we examine the world through nature or math and science, or a combination of both, there will always be beauty despite some of the ugliness, both personal and big-picture.