Brooklyn -- in our time: Three brothers, young, in a family with stresses. Puerto Rican father, white mother. Never enough. Of anything. Brothers building their own world- or worlds, contiguous; laughing, fightng, playing, building experience. Taking life and the larger world as it comes. Taking life on.
All right. Personal opinion alert: I have a problem with some definitions of poetry. Pretty radical, huh? Lots of people try to set rules for what makes a poem. Broken lines, and rhymes, and poetic techniques like onomatopoeia and alliteration.
No. Just: Concentration. There is no boundary between prose and poetry. Only ranging concentration. Poetry is essential communication. Like coffee: is coffee weak? Or strong? Or verging on the limits of caffein medication? Langauge is like that: a range of concentration, of intensity. This novel runs only one hundred twenty-five pages, but there's so much here.
If you like espresso:
Brief. Intense. Remarkable.