The poem I've selected is from Hollander's 1983 collection Powers of Thirteen, which won him the Bollingen prize and which was included in its entirety (unlike his other books, which were selected from) in his 1992 Selected Poems, so it seems like at least some people (including, presumably, Hollander himself (assuming he selected the selections in Selected P)) think it's representative of his best work.
Powers of Thirteen is, by the sound of it (so far I've only read a few selections I've found online) a rather Oulipian work.* It consists of 169 (13 squared) poems, each of 13 lines, with 13 syllables in each line. I can't (yet) comment on the success (or otherwise) of the whole, but the following poem (which may or may not be titled An Old Song -- the online source I've found is ambiguous on this), which is the 29th poem in the series, is quite wonderful.
Powers of Thirteen: 29What she and I had between us once, AmericaAnd its hope had; and just as I grieve alternatelyFor what I know myself to have lost of what had been,And for all that loss I was suffering all that whileI was doing, I thought, so well, so goes the nation,Grieving for her hope, either lost, or from the veryStart, a lost cause. All our states and I are one in this.O my America, my long-lost land lady ofThe hardening ground, the house neither ancient nor inGood repair, the brackish stream, the half-abandoned mill,The red plastic bucket that hung in the place we keptBy the beach where, I remember, August eveningsRang with hilarity until we trembled with cold.
-- John Hollander
There are a limited number of poems that seem to me to say something genuinely insightful about America; but this is, I think (again, I'm still assimilating it) one of them.
I hope to get ahold of Hollander's Selected Poems in the near future; if so, I'll share further thoughts (and, probably, further poems) then.
* The Oulipo is a French literary group that studies and promotes the notion of literary constraint; any poetic form, whether old like a sonnet or new like Hollander's 13s, counts -- and the fact that the work contains 169 such poems makes it doubly (squaredly?) so.