Mary Buchinger's The Book of Shores is a meditation into the nature of being, one that recognizes that "there once was a self/ known only to self// who carried the sea/ wherever she went." The verses in this collection are both restless and still, formally inventive and thrumming with lines that are "always talking/ about more than one thing." It's a collection that takes risks to name the ineffable, to chart the topography of one's interior landscape, to "[l]ift its lithosphere/ as you would/ the lid of a chest" so that we might explore "within its rifts and/ escarpment something in there/ making new an immensity/ that will not diminish."
-Brian Turner, author of The Wild Delight of Wild Things