n nIn this volume, Simic fills the wee hours of his poetry with angels and pigs, riddles and cemeteries. His is a rich, haunted world of East European memory and american present-a world of his own creation, one always full of luminous surprise. Simic writes so simply that his words fall like drops of water, but they ripple outward to evoke an ominous and numinous world (Washington Post Book World). nn