In these gentle poems, Wendt always situates her subjects: a delicate pebble ``must come fromthe side of some other mountain''; a series of coincidences leads inevitably to the sight of a lovely flock of birds; something ``too precious not in some way to pass on'' binds parent to child. In this beautifully ordered world even the unanticipated finally fitsthe damaged starfish, ``like the final/opinion you hadn't planned on,'' found by an ailing man and his children, the joy of singing the Mozart Requiem: ``we owe ourselves this/exhilaration again/ unexpected.'' Though the poems are not always as ordered as the world they reflectoccasionally the syntax breaks down, making them diffuseserious readers of poetry owe it to themselves to consider this work. For larger collections. Barbara Hoffert, ``Library Journal''