This was my first book of poetry by Sarah Manguso, after being absolutely stunned by the originality of her books: 300 Arguments and Ongoingness: The End of a Diary. The sparse language of those two works, short books composed of brief clumps of insightful language (most poetry-like), made me think that she was born for poetry. At this point—with another collection of her poetry coming to me in the mail—I’m just not seeing it yet. I couldn’t read a single page of those other two books without at least several moments of “yes” or “great,” yet this poetry collection simply failed to connect with me whatsoever. It was like she had engaged a different sensitivity or brain for these poems. As always, maybe it’s me. A mood can sweeten or spoil anything, but I sure hope that the collection making it way to me is more engaging. In a week or two, I’ll give this collection another chance, I’ll let you know if I develop an appreciation for this collection. ( )