First comes a kind of prelude, a prose consideration of language, identity, belonging, history, that grows up and out from local Irish and European origins. Then comes the cold, clear note of the poetry, and there is no point at which this isn't poetry. Once launched, it never hesitates, to explain itself or to doubt its own adequacy, it just moves. Material images dominate the verse, but their gravity is lightened by a play of relations made possible by an exactitude of sound, image, and echo that 'sing / out from the nought rim spelling / with numbers'. This play of relations joins a complex and intimate colloquy of Darwish and Celan, Fred Moten and Wu Tsang, inviting us to come close and listen. 'A sheer / wind sings in the breach'. There is a deep comfort in a language so inhabited, but it is not an easy one.