This is remarkable poetry by Nathaniel Farrell. Never have I been more mindful of a book's title, falling into flesh, the enduring consumption, consumed by the avalanche of the known world, the horizon seemingly in sight, then lost in the addictive travel with things, completely lost, where are we going, let's go, feeling familiar in the surrounding topography, at home even, but lost, as promised by the poet.

There's a great and wild simultaneity in Nathaniel Farrell's Lost Horizon. At once the tide pulls back, a phone lights up, a plastic plant sways in the mall. Way out there is Mars, and right here is a food court, and down below an octopus "fondles the ocean floor." It's vertiginous, how much we (don't) know. We just keep shopping, we throw a parade, we just keep parking our cars. Meanwhile, "the confluence presses down on the heart of the continent." But this book-of-wonder reminds us that we haven't always been here and we aren't ever alone. I kept thinking of that line from Simone Weil: "Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity." Lost Horizon is a beautifully generous book.