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This book haunts me, and I love every word. "Nightingale: A Gloss," which I read elsewhere first, is what I came for, but section III, "Quiver," "Gokstadt/Ganymede," and "Telling the Wasps," also held me rapt, gutted me. "Driving to Santa Fe" stitched me back together in some respects, but every poem touched me in some way. The book's construction is also a masterwork in organization, amplification, flow.