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 of eclipse. If friendship is a way of inventing a still improbable manner of being, the rapport of Jones Very- "conducted... from the rumor / of our formerly / transponding selves"-is its pine needle almanac. The tessellating virtue of this enterprise: that we move through it without shorthand, feeling the lavishness of its undertow as our own. "I live there," Jones Very tells us, "in the factory of a feather / wristed voice." In the seer's practicum, the romance of its warbled over-time.
