Wild is the wind, in Rigoberto González’s poem “Desert Lily.” He writes: “The wind arrives not because it’s called / but because it’s forgotten.” This arrives on Page 46, which is about the place where many readers will gently set this book aside, hitch a mask up over the ears and leap out the window. As if trampling this book’s egregious flower poems, Chapman looks down and thinks: Diane Seuss, in her poem “Pandemicon,” thinks that the virus — “a little spiked red ball of death”— resembles a dog’s chew toy. 