Ron Drummond almost unbearably late, in a collection of verses peopled with clutter, with broken, used objects begging for resale, reanimation, old things busy deluding themselves that they had once lived, at just the right moment, you might say, after pages cluttered with people who have failed the poet or whom the poet has failed, a kind of grace arrives through the visitation of a dead cat via the touch of its sister’s paw on the...