A beautiful rare experience in contemporary poetry. It lured me into the first reading with images exotic, charged, worldly, local, mundane, personal, relevant, dated, historic, natural, prosthetic, deep, shallow, and so on while always retaining a flow that kept me reading onto the next line even when deep concepts or more complex structural arrangements temporarily clouded meaning. Some come off as autobiographical flash fiction disguised as poetic versions of Eastern European short stories, some as cryptic notes to a lover or an ex, at least a couple could be songs by an American indie band whose singer ditched literary scholarship to hit the road. I usually detest verbose pretentious descriptions like these, but I can' seem to avoid them in describing Ewa Chrusciel's potent book of poems. Their lyric beauty leave me warmly anticipating future readings where awkward moments can unlock themselves to my comprehension. This is one that I will keep on my studio shelf and go back to time and time again like Dickinson, Hughes, Heaney, Hopkins, Sexton, Chekov, Williams, and Whitman.