"Hear the rustle all down the block as people unwrap the box of the Fifties. Life will be a clock, a pet, it will wag its tail and lie down. Food will glisten in mounds on the breakfast tables and ski
In her third collection of poems, Sue Wheeler writes of the ephemeral with an eye trained on the eternal questions. "Who are you?" she asks at the outset of her search for fresh and more telling names
