“Don’t you love dancing with other people’s / shimmering / bits of thought—” Gail Wronsky’s speaker laments and possibly asks at the same time. Surely, this stands as the ethos of these poems; they drift and sway through the morass of content and form and hook particulars of brilliance along the way. The American Dream will always require movement; any piece of literature in the conversation of “GREAT AMERICAN” will always require mobility. Wronsky’s poems move like a contemplative on a walk, like the act of making love, and like a dance. Her speaker is fearless of death: “letting them go to seed, to pot, to hell, to waste, a fate which is / in some ways worse. And they respond to our neglect”.