If Sandy Florian seduced a dictionary, her love child would read something like Telescope. Her prose poems are organized in loose alphabetic order and offer extended definitions of their own titular words. ‘Umbrella’ begins, “A piece of fabric stretched on ribs that radiate from a central spine. Or. A portable screen used for protection.” As the definition expands, the word at hand balloons into a well-developed idea. The challenging exercise appears effortless, thanks to the author’s vocabulary and deep understanding of a broad range of fields — precise words and choppy punctuation add intrigue. But this scientific language is occasionally dampened by sentimentality: ‘X-Ray’ ends with “Here in the penumbra of my ribcage. The shadows of my beating heart.” The jarring jump to the emotional comes close to succeeding, but due to the way its executed, heart-breaking dips let a tight poem go limp. This one criticism aside, her attempt at an innovative approach to poetry is admirable and generally works. Add to it all an aesthetically appealing cover, and this is definitely a lightweight dictionary worth owning.