Emily Dickinson is staying at home. She's wearing her white eyelet dress, wandering in her night-garden, composing a poem. Her father sleeps. Emily Dickinson writes a letter to Mr. Higginson. Is it any good, Sir? she laughs. She's been growing many years now, pulling up weeds from China, sighting a lark over France, stunned by the evening sun in her backyard as Amherst turns past--the opal herd, the amber farm. Emily Dickinson has a solemn face. Her eyes are very strange. They're dark and look inward and out. Stars sparkle in the back of her head. In her hand the vermilion flower, outstretched.

(Shapes of Self)