Poetry. Kary Wayson entrusts her whole art to the ludic music of language, seeking its way, syllable by syllable, phrase by sprightly turn of phrase, through way stations of feeling. She is funny and devastated and electrifying at every turn: '...he held down my knot / with a finger in the center the / better to tie my bow--;' 'I've followed my thinking like a man out driving / --and just back there he missed the turn.' These poems make me laugh out loud and blink back sudden tears. Mostly, though, they leave me slack-jawed at their lexical, logical, and wildly various tonal grace. For anyone seeking to survive primal loss and keep singing, Kary Wayson shows the way.--Suzanne Buffam.