Deliciously long lines hang suspended between the holy and the home... This American Israeli poet, teaching, and raising a daughter in the Middle East, acknowledges both the " wreckage of the Byzantine villages" as well as the peril of living in a place where " the antennae at the military base quiver" and where " no one knows what time our daily missile will appear." At the same time, this poet embraces Tel Aviv' s quotidian humor writing an ode to the city' s garbage collectors whose " clarity" she craves and praising " the season for shedding shoes... every last one of them black." The brilliant cadence of Sulak' s poems, " keeping pace with the current" of the Yarkon River along which the poet runs, not only enact, but also celebrate what it means to be alive " in a place where the flowers are old enough to have stories." These poems should be read, perhaps even sung— Sarah Wetzel