From what do we assemble ourselves, of what fervors is that scene of us comprised? Jones Very-named after Ralph Waldo Emerson's haunted acolyte-is an ecology of oxymel and abacus. The questions it nurses, the visions it tenders, accumulate by way of atmosphere and filigree. And its ensuing micro-scenes (last straw maquette and intimacy salvage) give off what Thoreau might call the bronze light of when the world that lights our own moves in or out...
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Poetry