I teach Beowulf and Paradise Lost almost every year, something I wouldn’t do if I didn’t have a thing for epic poetry. From time to time, I’ve wondered why nobody writes epic poems anymore. You know—sprawling, thrilling narrative poems that ordinary people actually want to read.

Somebody had to bring the epic back, and with his novel-length poem Sharp Teeth, Toby Barlow almost succeeds. I give him a small “a” for arrhythmia, and a large “A” for audacity.

Barlow begins, as any self-respecting poet must, by invoking the Muse. And then he threads together a violent rhapsody of plots and subplots, a tale taut with its own momentum.

His gritty subject? Werewolves in Los Angeles, dogcatchers in poverty, and the search for true love.