How does private thinking align with public action? And what might it mean to intend something anyhow? In Rob Winger's new collection of poetry, such questions are less a circulatory system - heart and lungs and blood - than a ribcage, a structure that protects the parts that matter most. Partly an investigation of system versus system error, It Doesn't Matter What We Meant asks us to own up to our own inherited contexts, our own luck or misfortune, our own ways of moving through each weekday.
