I found this book on a remainder table, opened it at random, and literally got chills reading that first page. This is the book that brought me back to reading poetry, which I'd probably stopped 15 years earlier.

I read it again recently, and its still just a wonderful collection. Graham manages to combine thoughts on important philosophical subjects with a deeply personal view and an astounding command of the language.

Here's how one untitled poem starts:

In the city that apparently never was,
where the hero dies and dies to no avail,
where one is not oneself it suddenly appears
(and you, who are you and are you there?)
I found myself at the window at last,
the room inside dark, it being late,
the ________ outside dark, it being night.
Found myself leaning against the pane, the body beneath
me naked,
and _lateness_ not different from _shadow_ around me,
and nothing true, nothing distracted into shape around me.

Outside, flashing lights, deep gloom.

A moonless enterprise consisting of towers not there to
the naked eye. ( )

I found a few poems I enjoyed in this collection, but for the most part Jorie Graham's style just does not do much for me. Her imagery is just too obscure and amorphous most of the time, and I am left not really knowing what the poem is trying to say. I don't mind working for the meaning of a poem, but I have to enjoy the imagery along the way. ( )