In the way of Dickinson, Emery’s poems here are untitled. This and the use of sometimes disparate images can give rise to a sense of fragmentation that might leave some readers searching for a foothold. The poet observing himself in the act of perceiving and thinking is often foregrounded, and occasionally ponderous: ‘You’re thinking, / you are aware of thought, but what you’re thinking / is less than clear ...’ Elsewhere, Emery is less elusive, as shown in tender poems about his grandchildren. At his best he deftly melds the particular with the metaphysical, abetted by gentle humour: ‘... drooping leaves as nondescript / as any failure of a man, any thought / whose time has come and gone and gone again.’