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From the intersection of public and private fear, Kerri Webster's award-winning collection speaks of anxiety and awe, vanishings and reappearances. A city both rises and falls; worlds are simultaneously spoken into being and torn down by words. &quote;This is how time sounds,&quote; Webster writes; this is the hum and click of bodies &quote;desirous of believing we're all vehicle, every wet atom of us,&quote; even as the saved seeds root in the fallen brickwork and the artifacts pile up: wisdom teeth, hummingbird skulls, plumb bobs, icons, antlers, incandescent bulbs.Grand & Arsenal begins &quote;Bless me I am not myself,&quote; but it is not long before the probability of being blessed is revealed to be as remote as the concept of a whole self. Thus begins the book's defining struggle, enacted by a multitude of voices which move from rush to stumble and back again-meanwhile using all the tools we as a culture use to hold fear at arm's length.We hear a familiar irony, as in &quote;On a trip West, porn in the hotel room. I can take or leave it. The climax that puts me in the seats? World's end.&quote; We hear humor, as in &quote;I believed in . . . / . . . a certain apocalypse not so much foretold as crafted / by large-brained monkeys.&quote; We hear understatement, as in &quote;knowing it does not matter / in the grand-she would say scheme, I would say / mishap-.&quote; Most importantly, though, these poems allow for the fleeting triumph of an undefended voice, which appears often to emerge tentatively from a sort of exhausted collapse.