" We know exactly where we are and who we are in Michael Martone's Memoranda, and then there's a space, a blank, a hinge, a hole in the floor, a fold in the space/time continuum, a silent fugue, a " dragon in the crease" as Dickinson says. Then we're no longer sure who and where we are. The memos do what good poems do: they trouble and baffle. They astonish and intoxicate. Martone makes us more aware of our affinities and complicities, of the strange...