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Celebrate Valentine's Day with this short poem, Emily Dickinson's intense expression of passion, the hope of physical connection in a stormy world.
A sexy and raw poem about sex in adolescence--or if not sex, then getting ready for it, preparing for it, reaching and reaching. A mature poet finds her former self in a place far removed from the mature world--and perhaps more interesting, more dangerous, or at least more honest.
Percy Bysshe Shelley was wrong. Poets are not the unacknowledged legislators of the world. They are the world's voice, saying the things we can't, reminding us that light goes out and returns with shocking abandon.
Olzmann does a brilliant job of summing up the small things that make up love--and the tenuous nature of the truce that is at the very heart of love. It's not the commercial, the consumer culture ending. At least not at first. But it gets there the hard way. The real way.
From the publisher's feed