Patricia Corbus’s starting point is home, where “in pearly clouds / called fog we sit / on unseen chairs / …We stay, we go.” When she goes, there are no limits to her flights, which, for example, may take her to “the vast loneliness of fledgling planets, / bitter-smelling rocks in empty rivers, / not decaying in patience like houses or bodies / slowly sinking—but firming, moons jockeying / like China juggled out of a cupboard.”

Corbus, as one of her titles puts it, is an escape artist, whose flights may also carry her to radical origins, as when she falls “into God before he thought / of dividing up, back when he rolled his tongue about himself like a marble or sheep’s eye, / before he raised a window in himself and looked out….”

Wit and driving force, newly minted metaphors, vocabulary forged in energy, and unflappable nerve make these poems something genuinely new. Finestra’s Window will be an energy source for generations to come.