In Sleuth, a lyric whodunit, seeing is not always believing and the eye's weight buckles under other modes of sensing: extrasensory perception, synesthesia, dream. The poems draw from the shifty tradecraft of the detective, guising and disguising their fashioning of self and world. Estranged but wary of their own solipsism, the voices in this riotous collection—apprentice, villager, topiary, ghost—take stock of their situation and turn to one another, proclaiming: "I will chance it!"