Somehow Still Watered When It Was Over

Somehow Still Watered When It Was OverThere's a kind of synesthesia that occurs while reading Kevin Dyer's poetry. The dust gets under your skin, there's a scent of sand, of heat and spices, the rush of a river. The impact is nearly visceral, evocative, sometimes almost other worldly. Whatever the experience, I can't read it without feeling altered in some way, as if I've been on a journey into the essence of being or un being; sometimes incendiary, often tender, the heart breaks open a

There's a kind of synesthesia that occurs while reading Kevin Dyer's poetry. The dust gets under your skin, there's a scent of sand, of heat and spices, the rush of a river. The impact is nearly visceral, evocative, sometimes almost other-worldly. Whatever the experience, I can't read it without feeling altered in some way, as if I've been on a journey into the essence of being or un-being; sometimes incendiary, often tender, the heart breaks open a bit wider. This collection of poetry unflinchingly refuses to look away from the everyday distillation of experience, vast in scope and yet impossibly infinitesimal in detail, a taste of the world on your tongue.
Susannah Rose Woods