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Luke Kennard's very contemporary poem almost overwhelms its reader with imagery--until the poem makes a strange turn into story, incipient, vague, but visible, connecting back to itself and to "us," the ones made of nothing but dust.
With this second in a mini series on the poems Emily Dickinson sent to Thomas Wentworth Higginson (see episode 30 for the first one in this series), let's try to understand why she claims dreams recede. Or is it heaven that recedes? Or maybe poetry? Or Dickinson herself? This poem is a confusing interpretive knot--like the poet herself. Perhaps that's why she sent it to the man she wanted to become her "preceptor."
From the publisher's feed