Lisa Robertsons poems both court and cuckold subjectivity by unmasking its fundament of sex and hesitancy, the coil of doubt in its certitude. Reading her laments and utopias, we realize that, in any she and a shes assumption of thinking, language whiplike casts ahead of itself a fortuitous form. The form brims here pleasurably with dogs, movie stars, broths, paintings detritus, Latin, and pillage. We recognize our grand, saddened century. Editor Elisa Sampedrn says, 'Every time I found a poem of hers, she saved me writing one. She gave volume to my intervals. I kept looking. I radiated. I made requests. I found other Lisa Robertsons and rejected them: she is not a flight attendant, not a cheerleader or home shopping host. She is chagrins first companion, error. When I find her in person, Ill engage her in fisticuffs.'