briefly to become the sun). Marvelously, at the end, the poem’s line of Tour de France cyclists (“as cursive and precise / a mechanism as a saxophone or unhoused / gearworks”) is made somehow akin to a poetic line: “a device / for watching how a perfect line’s composed.”

That's a humdinger. "(Furtiving a napkin)" is going to stick in my head for a long while. Appreciate the heads-up on the new book, too!