It's difficult to criticize a book so full of emotional content without seeming harsh. But Doty's poems seem to begin as empty vases into which he jams far too may flowers. In the end, he can't hide the fact that they're just big empty jars. So much truly moving poetry is being written from the AIDS pandemic: Aaron Shurin's "Unbound," D. A. Powell's eloquent "Tea," William Dickey, Marie Howe, Thom Gunn's "The Man With Night Sweats." And then this posturing prose, broken into lines, that is My Alexandria. Pity.