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My rating: 5 of 5 stars. So sometimes you know the poet. Sometimes you’ve known the poet for a long time, and you know where the bodies are buried. More or less. I know Mark Neely. I’ve known him a long time. I’ve eaten his chili. I’ve stared into the guileless eyes of the beautiful dog he named after Walt Whitman. And I’ve read his two books of poems. The first I loved. Not only (but not least) because I knew where the bodies were buried. This one I love because he’s made the daring leap the first book promised. From consummate craftsman to essential, necessary voice.