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Milan Děžinský’s poems probe what lives in the shadows. They’re alert to the echoes and whispers of history, to what’s heard through walls, and to secrets forests keep. They speculate about the wonder of a woman’s tongue, peer into the composition of matter, question who is prey and who is predator. And perhaps most importantly, these poems are attentive to every kind of messenger: injured animals, apparitions, ‘the mathematical beauty of frost,’ a wall containing a still-trembling ‘tear of builder’s sweat.’ Deep and dark as chasms, sometimes wry, sometimes chilling, they demand repeated readings. Dear translator, can we please have some more?