This debut volume by a young Scottish journalist finds power in objectification. Though Ferguson pens poem after poem in which hearts bleed, nothing actually pulsates: love, grief, and fear are held up to sharp scrutiny in short, economical lines, with precise imagery, and controlled lyricism. There's nothing sentimental in poems such as ""Bad News,"" which compares a lover's escape to a slippery fish, nor in the midwinter love of ""Winter Sunflowers,"" and especially not in ""I Do Not Cry Like I Used To,"" in which the poet imagines herself a dried-up riverbed. Ferguson's thumping syllabics, with her heavy consonance and compound adjectives, lend her a full-throated sound, as she details braises, stones, and bones. Her sense of the seasons and their flora is never pastoral; her relentlessly bleak landscapes find release in spring's riot of color (""Outdoor Artist""). ""The Day You Stopped Calling Me Darling"" typifies her attitude to ""two-faced"" love with its ""mad topography,"" and its silences that cut like knives. So terse that her poems sometimes sacrifice meaning, Ferguson nevertheless reveals herself slantwise, and thereby deserves attention.