Maybe you grew up on a bus or the back seat of a car, always on the way to someone who was never really there. [Dybing’s] lyricism plots the route, and it’s reliable. You thump with them just like years thump you, and maybe you grew up to find yourself in charge of the Big Journey, too. Maybe you are lucky enough to read these maps and like [Dybing] will see a way to wipe the vanity of hiding your head in your hands when you’re alone off the table. There is no farce here. Only fools rush in, but poems like these smack the fool off your fool face and help you stay the course. Travel-worthy work like this is real, not fadeaway.