The Wilderness was the most affecting collection I’d read since Che’s Split. Cold (physically), estranged, and searching. Many of the poems are arranged in paragraph-like stanzas (albeit, short paragraphs of three lines or so) that almost act as individual prose poems. Longing and desire are strong, if rarely explicit, elements. But the dialogue, as it were, is between the poet and herself. The object of desire may be referenced, but it does not feel present. In sense, the object is not the point.