https://www.paypal.com/instantcommerce/checkout/Q4655EYRBTZKQ We are shaped, each of us, by our own accidents, what Jason Irwin, in his gritty account, calls the vagaries, tracing his life in the rustbelt parentheses where “everything we’ve lost is gathered”: friends, family, the disjecta of abandoned rooms and factories, and most hauntingly, the clubfoot cynosure of the poet’s now severed limb, sympathetic to the surrounding music. “Like the song the dead sing,/or the cry of a newborn . . . the history of our comings and goings.” Poem after poem, Irwin stands his painful ground. His book shows us how the pivot foot get