The opening poem, "History," goes on for 10 pages, and yet there is no sense of dawdling. Every line is so perfectly fitting with surprising language and formation, that I wish it were even longer. Smith creates entire worlds in her poems that I read over and over again so as to inhabit them. Her style is moody and dark, but her words are delicate and feel fragile in their arrangements. To close the book feels like waking from a dream; that is how transporting her words are. The images she creates are earthy and surprising: "Winter is a boa constrictor / Contemplating a goat. Nothing moves," ("Diego," p. 37). These are not graceful, flitting poems singing nature's praises; these are dark, poised poems, contemplative of human nature and our choices and desires. I've collected many books of poetry over the years, but this is one I am still drawn to, no matter how many times I've read it.