Nets woven of bird guides and self-help books, legal argot and street slang, Whitman's long-lined grass, and the sway, jangle, juxtaposition, joy, and far-flung syntax of the vast field of English—going back to its gnarly old roots in Chaucer—all populate Julie Sheehan's exuberant poems. Sheehan's poems are concerned with navigation and with choice; with how to live in an increasingly urbanized, global, technological world; with how to orient oneself as, for example, a woman in a still largely patriarchal society; and with how to make moral choices when the options seem either rich to embarassment or shamefully narrow. In Sheehan's world, hip-hop reverberates throughout Southern swamps and "men / have left their honeysuckle sows for yields / of telemarketing." Yet there are coyotes in Greenwich, Connecticut, where "our sinks back up, our toilets will not drain, / our nature disobediently tends toward nature." Orient Point seeks balance between the boundless joy and the tragic irony of today's existence, asking essentially, Do we make our way througn abundance or debris?