THE HOUR WASP by Jay Sheets does the unspeakable. It takes you on a journey, in three sections, through morose, sometimes tragic imagery (the ouroboros rinsed in venom / [flickering] the shape of things unshaped // no silken moments / only that which is always breaking / [something is always / breaking here]), and finds itself, in those melancholy moments of the second section some hint of a truth, of a reason, of hope, or a hope (the hour wasp awakens // & we are the things that take shape / & we let the things without shape take shape), and then, finally, we come to the final section, the send-off, the great, all-encompassing display of universal truths, using similar images, visions Mr. Sheets has experienced himself through dreams and meditations, and gives the reader the sense of understanding, almost accomplishment as she has waded through the dark along with the author and illustrator and come to find a sense of solace, one that may stand the test of time (i see the thousandth star / she looks to the thousandth star / the thousandth star is us // & i wonder if i / or anyone i know should be so lucky / & i light a new fire at the end of myself).
