"So here I go again, away." As with his first collection, Find A Place That Could Pass for Home, Glenn Shea's poems here speak of distances: the distances of a restless traveler ("We are on time's tide, crossing to Aranmor / Carrying to places stranger than day allows."), the distances of time and death (as in the elegies for poets Jack Gilbert, John Hewitt, and Wislawa Szymborska) and romantic loss ("Long miles from you, in / Delhi, even the morning room is dark."). But in the remembering "something has grown stout," and the poems reflect, in a final sequence about time spent in the teem and welter of India, a growing devotion to "the gold of busy and familiar day," and the distances closed by compassion, affection and by poetry itself. Book jacket.