"Nothing will perish" claims The Inextinguishable, a book that stares wide-eyed at suffering, and yet wants to shout as loudly as it can: what death? Sunning themselves in Homer's light, in Shakespeare's, in the hidden radiance of childhood and middle age, in the luster of what is, of what will always be, these poems mourn when they must, and yet wish nothing more than to become still louder instruments of celebration and gratitude: There is rain. There is this day. There is this day and no other. Praise it with trumpets and zithers. Praise it however you can.