Ivy Grimes is the great-great-great granddaughter of Rimbaud. Not literally, of course. But Grimes is the kind of poet who opens a cage of parrots after a line break or who frees an avalanche after tapping at our frozen minds with a series of sharp images. In her fearlessness and craft, in her equal fascination with teeth and with love, Grimes is provocateur and prophet. Take, for instance, her understanding of a frighteningly distant deity in "Songs to God," or the importance of withholding information from the dancing girls in "Prairie Dogs": time and time again, Grimes' poetry is the drunken boat that wanders through forests and oceans to remind each of us that we are the lucky possessors of rabid souls.