“We are always between angels” says R.G. Evans in his wondrous new collection, Imagine Sisyphus Happy. These poems look back on personal history, on life and loss, on triumphs and failures—the secret language of the blood. Evans walks to the edge and crosses over, giving us a glimpse of the extraordinary in the ordinary: elegy flowers, the smell of fresh cut hay, a neighborhood 7-11, the steadiness of animals, cypress trees, and stars. Evans “is trembling there at the summit just before the rock rolls down,” and we want to be right there with him, flesh to stone.