Everyone asks what we're afraid of
but we aren't supposed to say.
We could put loneliness on the list.
We could put this list on the list,
its infinity. We could put infinity down.
—from “Chorus” Whittled down to song and fragments of story, these poems teeter at the edge of dread. In Catherine Barnett's second book, love stutters its way in and out of both family and erotic bonds. A gang of unchaperoned children, grappling with blame and forgiveness, speak with tenderness and disdain about “the mothers” and “the fathers,” absent figures they seek in “the face of the clouds” and in the cars that pass by. In an extended sequence of nocturnes, a man and a woman eschew almost everything but the ghostly erotic and its stark love. The final poems hover above dread, or burrow beneath it, to discover "the intersection / of Meaning and Pleasure, which the map / says is a little further inside of here."