From what do we assemble ourselves, and of what aesthetic fervors is the scene of us comprised? Jones Very-named after Ralph Waldo Emerson's haunted acolyte-is an ecology of abacus and oxymel, where a river meets the inside of an osier basket. The questions it nurses, the visions it tenders, accumulate by way of atmosphere and filigree. Sifting the stuff of intimacy from its first or last straw, the ensuing micro-scenes (rune, moss, maquette) give off what Thoreau might call the bronze light of when the world that lights our own moves in or out of eclipse. If friendship is a way of inventing a manner of being that is still improbable, then the rapport of Jones Very- "conducted... from the rumor/ of our formerly/ transponding selves"-is something like that friendship's pine needle almanac, scratched over time where its queer flock stakes were felt more than the ground to which they were driven. The tessellating virtue of this enterprise: that we have no shorthand for moving through it, meaning we feel the lavishness of its undertow as our own. "I live there," Jones Very tells us, "in the factory of a feather/wristed voice." These saturating poems are a seer's practicum, the romance of its warbled over-time.