<i>The Thicket </i>opens into intimate encounters with the more-than-human world—rivers, birds, stones—and with a "you" that is not a person, necessarily, but also not not a person: maybe God, maybe an aspect of the self, maybe neither or both. Often speaking of/to the small or overlooked (weeds by a roadside, an abandoned silo), the poems orient themselves toward edges, transitional spaces like the one where fields shift into woods. Where does one body stop? <i>The Thicket</i> takes an interest in becoming, one thing flowing into something else.<br><br><br><b>Excerpt from "At Cape Henlopen"</b><br><br>All night wind insists in the trees, its unsteady hush<br>funneling us down into sleep under the tender<br>shelter the oaks, even leafless, make—all night<br>their trunks creak and sigh and speak. <i>Speak</i><br><i>to me</i>—I think the word <i>protect</i> until its edges<br>dissolve, inside the tent that wraps us<br>like another, thinner skin, rocked and chastened<br>by the wind that doesn't cease . . .