Lavinia Greenlaw's follow-up to her well-received debut, Night Photograph, is a thought-provoking and memorable exploration of missed connections, disasters narrowly averted, and occasional glimpses of beauty. All of these themes converge in images, as when "dying wasps / make drunken passes at my hair. / They are drawn to glass, as air, / and cannot tell." The poems are driven by the gap between what can be known and what can be said, as in "Landscape," in which Greenlaw's haiku-influenced imagery wraps itself around an ineffable moment of shared experience: "Aroused by emptiness, / you push a hand inside my jeans. / The wind in the three-hundred-year-old / Lebanon cedars / makes a noise like nothing living."