A fine high-style book of poems--disciplined, contained, graceful. Instead of presenting a cacophony of raw viscera--a contemporary temptation--Mr. Reeve's poems induce a suspension, a listening, to the ring of ""secret pacing"" Where a man might ""know his time."" Reeve's cerebral images insinuate, excite: ""the shadow of my father/ slippers toward the exit,/ terrified of the dark."" A fearsome vision of reality--of light and moonlight and quiet oases out of time--probes death and love and memory. Reeve occasionally cossets words (""swagged sleep"") but in toto these poems are lyrically firm and discreetly emotive.