Into Perfect Spheres Such Holes are Pierced by Catherine Barnett was the last book of poetry that I read. It is largely dealing with grief and accepting (or even refusing) loss. Some of the poems were highly meaningful and well-crafted. Others were lackluster to me. But that is just me. I'm a staunch critic. It has recieved a glowing reception in other areas of the writing world. The best way I can describe my level of interest in the collection is this: The poetry did not leap off the page and wrestle me to the floor, neither did it cause me to grab an ice-pick and gouge my eyes out.
Here's the best one from the collection (which not surprisily shares its title with the whole work):
Into Perfect Spheres Such Holes are Pierced
We unstrung necklaces into two glass bowls
and passed them round to the mourners.
The beads were onyx, agate, quartz, all manner
of stone. Everyone was to take two
and at the end of the service
put one back in my sister's hands.
What could she do but collect
the round weights all night?
She has not restrung them,
not wanting to be finished yet with death.