Crimes of passion are committed out of love as well as hate, and perhaps it is just as wrong to intrude into someone else's loneliness as to abridge it in a more violent way: ""I will shelter anyone/ who needs it, it's always been/ my problem."" These are poems written in the language of the everyday that achieve unassuming nostalgic beauty more by juxtaposition of the ordinary and the sublime (""the table/is crowded & we are sobbing away our lives"") than by rhetorical devices or adjectival embellishment. They are filled with the stuff of midwestern life: beer, snow covered fields, spam, dead animals -- also images that form our tinseled dreams: Ed Sullivan, James Dean, Santo & Johnny, a girl named ""Tits."" The majority are personal, but some are rather brilliant stabs at the American psyche that go way past propaganda or anger into the heart of our mythology: ""I am the crud between your teeth/after a big slab of ham./ I. am the priest of your nostrils/as your sinuses flow/with the weather,"" or the gentler but sadder ""Stars rust/ in the water of my eyes. I have run/ to the end of my world"" of a man on his way to retirement in Florida. In short, a collection of beautiful, precise, effective poems, by an author whose work has appeared in The New Yorker, Esquire, and The New American Review.