Impossible perhaps—he thinks—to read the world, to sing it, to offer up its names. Yet, as Christopher Sindt reminds us in this probing and often startling lucid first collection, the world, that world, is all that is the case, with its Dantescan windings and sudden Ovidian transformations. His encounters with it here, at once lyric and elegiac, tacitly argue that this “temporary world” might just me enough.