Mark Halperin recovers forgotten moments and bygone people in these poems of place and memory. Through personal and historical recollections he fashions images so alive and concrete we regret ever having overlooked them. "We should have missed / nothing. But to the west, past the mountains, / is a town with fish in the streets. Who could imagine / the yellow and orange dots on their backs? Imagine / missing that." Loneliness, lack, and wariness permeate these richly textured memories. Potiphar's wife, Zuleika, recounts her dreams but falters, unable to trust even her own words. "Part of me would fall to her knees in belief / but she is heavy.... / She / draws her gown over her knees, / the cruel curve of her mouth." She is saved from obscurity but not before exposing the unreliability of memories. Seductive fantasies tempt the narrator's troubled spirit only to confirm that they are moments long past or impossible. "The weight on my chest is air's / but monstrously heavy."