An airy curtain-flapping collection of brisk verse--clever, quick and diverting. Mr. Spack delights in rhythm and rhyme oscillations pointing up aphoristic gimcracks, sagacious slangy beats (""I dig this bird's/ sufficiency. . . he's somebody else's mouthful./ He breakfasts like a long talk with a cop.""). In more lyrical moments the poet speaks of springs and taproots, rain and flights of gulls. Though the world ""at its own good speed/ is tugged by oxen,"" after the building of the house, remains the company of children digging to China. There are occasionally lazy bits of packaged imagery (""... she moves on beside him, meadowsweet"") ""the hill/disappears; becomes/ a topless tower""). Spack is at his best in the portraits, wry and witty ditties. Capsuled cbullience previously evidenced in his novel The Sophormore (1967). His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Saturday Review, etc.