Dylan Doren’s “Time and Space” is a book of collected poems divided into three fragments: time, coitus, and space. What strikes most about this book is its angst — the way in which it rawly catalogues in our interface with desire. What more is desire than our inescapable longing for that which we cannot have, an object of love just out of our proximity, an ideal always just out of joint with our own experiential narrative of time? In “Time and Space,” we feel the tumult of the necessary distance which sustains the act of loving itself, the impossibility of its culmination. Here, two lovers dance around each other in an attempt to pin down the other, each unable to grasp themselves in the shifting. In the book’s archival telling of this process, it unconsciously sketches the contours of longing itself: the ways in which we tragically attempt to eradicate the distances, proximities, and temporal lags that are the stuff of intimacy itself. Loaded with self-fracturing (the movement between first and third person accounts), temporal fracturing (the movement between the past, present, and future), this is a work of blunt outpouring and honesty.