Most of Jonathan Tree’s poems are Trump-era snippets of wandering thoughts and preconscious self-talk. And so his debut collection, Oh No, may plausibly concern anything from trivial anxieties to massive catastrophes. Warnings of something bad — something never specified — recur throughout. Exasperation and amusement collide. Tensions erratically fluctuate, then finally evaporate with Panglossian delusion and an eye roll of relief. Tree clearly delights in pithy title-body sayings, verso-recto pairs, and a puzzling whereabouts on the sincerity-irony spectrum: “Yeah / it’s true // Damn It / slash / woohoo”.