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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,...