It’s all a sly wink to the book’s presentation: reddish-black ink on bluish-black paper, such that the reader is there in the eponymous pit. And the poet: a thief in a dark home, winking, slyly, in front of the witless reader, perhaps now: “Now. If the thing surrounding / this knife is a stomach, / then announce yourself, stomach.” Now, it’s all a sort of black hole: each poem pulled here by the force of the project, and in this way the wink is also a hole, and the stab wound. The holes in these poems are greater than the sums of their parts—themselves also holes. “Through the keyhole, no / light streams across the dark / hallway to the peephole.” The hallway is also a hole, people. Now.