Now is the winter of Sharon Olds’ discontent. Then spring, then summer, then fall, then years later. The discontent? Her husband has left her. That’s what these poems are about. All of them. She even finds a way to make a poem called, “September 2001, New York City,” about her ex-husband. Don’t get me wrong. I like Olds’ precision and line breaks. She creates the small moments with extreme dexterity. The whole project just seems a wee bit self-indulgent.