"Spinoza is rubbing my glasses again, leaving / the middle range blurred for a reason. / Any truth is a blur," Barbara Carlson begins one poem, then carries us to Spinoza's periphery with Miro, Chekhov and Jesus in quick order. Truth is not only a blur, but what we find in the unexpected. It is the "haunting music" in all that is unmusical, but out of which this essential book of poems creates an essential music. Ranging from Hungary and Slovenia, across the US continent, from Orpheus and Schubert the everyday world of love and death, Carlson gives speech to the "unspoken." Yes, we are driven...