"Walk thrice where thieves are hanged. Iron your own shirt." With the prisms of varied vocabularies refracting detail and language, Sarah Lang illuminates the intricacies of an erotic relationship, and, as she does, announces herself as a commanding and rhythmically captivating new poetic presence. The first section of this extended meditation borrows from "The Farmer's Almanac," while the second is infused with the language of the occult. In the third part, Lang invokes the vocabulary of the institution--the airport, the hospital. In the end, these linguistic pillagings accrete into a poignant shadow under the letters of Lang's own words, pulling them into a stark and alluring focus. With echoes of Carole Maso and Virginia Woolf, Lang has given us a constellation of poems as delicate and relentless as pure light.