I just finished James Tate’s Worshipful Company of Fletchers, which sat on my shelf too long. You can see his next book neatly brewing in its pages. It was the first time I felt like I had a good handle on what he was doing in Return to the City of White Donkeys… a book I adored but couldn’t quite get underneath. Oddly enough, or perhaps not oddly at all, it took the poems in Fletchers that aren’t bizarre conversations to contextualize the imaginative dislocation, the placelessness of place.