A distilled voice, the uncanny voice of the mind talking to itself, contained in a language that has been reduced to its ultimate simplicities—Harriet Zinnes’ new poems record the mature mind’s thoughts on the happenstances of a life in its idiosyncrasies. The words turn on themselves as the poet realizes their various permutations, and then attendant small ironies they cause spring to the fore. Here is a poetry of attention to thought’s very language, its waking patter and dreamy wonder. For Zinnes, in this late collection, the world still holds a “desire in all its waywardness”; to be sure, maturity affords its own exhilarations—not despite its understanding (“The burst of it all”) but because of it. Still, she asks questions, and her responses are haunting. Here, indeed, are poems without illusion. “Not even love matters / when the lips are sewn.” Thankfully, Zinnes has more to say.