Jumping from one room to another, a hallucinatory scene to a drunken bore, Kennard’s book is good-humouredly wild. It reminded me of John Berryman, whose self-joshing Dream Songs, and their own Shakespearean vibes, any poetry fan in their cups might quote. That’s another habit of characters in Notes on the Sonnets – reeling off what they hope are bon mots – and Berryman’s sequence, too, if it is one, plays tricks with linear time. Its hyper-emotionalism could be an act, or just sincerity. You don’t know what you’re listening for, in restless poetries such as these, and may not expect it when it comes. I often thought of Mika Gellman, a poet who wrote one astonishing book called jack in 2013, then seems to have vanished into the Brooklyn air.