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V. Penelope Pelizzon’s magnificent poems are epyllions, ‘little epics,’ that synthesize a stunning breadth of experience. Their geographical circuit—from Brooklyn to Africa to the Middle East—provides the backdrop for candid meditations on time and mortality, agency and accident. Like Elizabeth Bishop, that other consummate traveler, Pelizzon riffs on ‘assurance / of ruin’s recurrence’: Awful but cheerful.