"Relentlessly heartfelt and stringently beautiful, Frances Richey"s poems recall us to a cycle we should never forget: the only way into the world is through the family; the only way into the family is through the self; the only way into the self is through the world. On page after page . . . we confront words born of necessity: nothing trivial or tossed off, everything wrenched and crafted from the rock of felt thought. The realms of other art-Renoir, Giacometti, Vermeer-feed Richey"s perception, but she never forgets her obligation to have her own difficult making be foremost."-Stephen Corey