-


all my mistakes in life
add weight to a scale
of self-judgement–

so far i sense
a balance—

yet it feels to me like
i've let so much ballast
get washed overboard...




s jones
2022



.

-

in order to
"poem"
             BIG—

i must learn
to write
              small...


s jones
2021


.

-

There were five of us working late
when i saw this creature crawling
rapidly across the concrete floor-

one of the employees counted the
legs on its right side, he said there
were seven-teen of them–

more than enough
to carry all of us

We left it be to continue its destiny
in this place where we must make
our living as everything else dies
outside in a midnight autumn frost

A curious distraction,
this singularity —

moving about thirty-four
steps per second in the
midst of a ten hour shift...


s jones
2021


.

-

i look up at my feet and
understand what it is like
to be buried underneath
the entirety of the Earth—

maybe Atlas was
simply interred
after all...



s jones
2021


.

-

Greetings,

I am the empty chair you just recently
pushed into the carport like some unruly
child made to stand in a corner.

Not a new chair for sure,
but you made me Your chair
by the force of gravity,

transforming my cushion into
perfect contours in the image
of your ***.

Though you were always careful
if crumbs fell into me to get up
and brush them away,

and instead of just plopping down
******* me, you sat gentle and easy,
even if only doing so to soften the
shock for yourself,

there were moments as you sipped beer
you let it slip through your bottom lip,
dripping on me with bitter aftertaste.

Still, I was forgiving of that, and even
to those numerous occasions of you
venting your evening meals.

But the one event that forever sullied our
personal relationship was the morning you
woke on me soaked in most of the past
evening's              
                ~~brew

Though you tried to patch things up
with towels and scented sprays,
we were never to look upon
one another with the
same recognition
again.

I know now the days for me here number
far less than the buttons of the controller
you so frequently lost between my cushions,
giggling me in your efforts to retrieved it.

Although our separation will mean for me a
transformation into a twisted pile of springs,
stuffing, splinters and ripped cloth within the
bucket jaws of a front end loader in the snow,

I can take some comfort with me to the
resting pits of jettisoned human folly that
our severance was of no fault of my own.

yours truly,
Chair...


s jones
2007-2020


.

-

last night i met a wolf  
in a dream where
i was in a car with
the door decidedly open

listening to a radio that
was playing
some soft jazz
on a distant station.

i look and— there He was !!
right next to me sitting
just inches away.

He said (woof) "Hello" with a
mild but manly voice, this fellow
was well over two hundred lbs.

i said "hello" back as He sniffed
at the side of my leg briefly
and then looked at me with

friendly eyes and an expression
which seemed –to me– like
a gentle smile.

He then said (woof) "I just wanted
you to pet me for a minute–
hopefully you wont mind"

so i did..

perhaps it was the scent of what i sprayed
on as i made my way out, or maybe
how the boots surrounded my
thighs a couple of inches
above my knees as the
wind blew across
my skirt like a
gesture—

and then a voice on
the radio shouted,

"You should be Parked !!"

I woke...


s jones
2021


.

-


take any pen and
pull off the cap,

test-scribble on paper
to see if the machine
on the end of it
will distribute
ink

or

take a
charcoal
briquette and
mark a concrete
wall with your ideas
in full black

either way—

i guarantee that
—somewhere—
an authority will
make an attempt
to pressure wash it
back off with a
water cannon...


s jones
2021


.

-

an icicle broke off from
the gutter of my porch,

stabbing my hydrangea
bush right in the heart.

i could reprimand the
shattered remains of an
icy spear,

and then bandage the
wound with a layer
of snow–

yet it occurs to me to maybe
quarter an apple with a
Swiss Army knife,

this pooling of thoughts like
pale blood seeping out of a
painfully frozen morning—

turning me white like
heavy frost over
so many early roses...


s jones
2021


.

-


would i rather wait in line
at the entrance to Hell
knowing at least
that i had
tried—

than to stare at the Pearly
Gates coming up with
excuses as to why
i didn't
?


s jones
2021

.

-

thick
blanketing  
comfortably soft
foldings enclosing
warmth around my being,

they may not insure my
safety– yet they do
provide some sense
of security

and perhaps motivation–

my hands reach inboard
along the divides between
flesh and cloth

probing contrasting textures
for a perfect fit of my fingers
into a clasping for rope

pulling for wind—

i slip off with my sail
into an ocean of dreams...



s jones
2022


.

-

the hands–
they still move

when i was too little
to know what it was,

i slobbered all over it
and knocked it over

daddy would just
wipe it off

check the time

and put it back on
the night stand

—

they still move...



s jones
2023




.

-


Lines border my eyes like new roads
to more distinguishing characteristics,
signifying for me many a morning frown.

I draw my face closer to the mirror to
examine them in more detail, mapping
pending destinies laid fresh like asphalt.

Traces of purple fans out from the exterior
corners, I think of them as ink spatter that
gets larger every time I endorse

a small check.

I cannot stop the runs but I can
hide the evidence with concealer
creams and foundation,

establishing a façade upon which
the viewer will find as pleasant
from just the right                          
                                       distance.

I stand back just so approximately
from the mirror to admire
an illusion of youth,

and then move forward once more
to fathom the texture
of experience—

"Maybe less this time" I think,
have I not earned the right ?


s jones
2011-2021

.

-

why is it every time
i look into your eyes
i am upended

falling into them
like a pouring into
your crystal goblet

of some
unqualified
                     spirit



s jones
2021



.

-

i took no pleasantries in that adjustment
from the top shelf of Pastry Perfection
to the wicker-wire dust bunnies at the
"sole" level of humanity

after i mistakenly thought —you—  took
some element of freeverse i had posted a
couple of years ago at one of the more-read
poetry sites on the internet-

then i realized something, Poet..

that for all those sleepless hours you
spent cramming for the SAT—

i posited on how many welding rods
could be burned down during a two
hour period of trade school

and with respect to those thousands of
words diligently packed into your
undergrad dissertation—

(including that humorous description of a
knitted strap you used to keep the pencil
from rolling off the table)

i wrote a brief essay of commonalities
on how much Gerald R. Ford and
Elwyn Brooks White
actually disliked
football,

and to those thoughtfully crafted lectures
in front of scores of distinguished
scholars and senior staff—

i was projecting shadow puppets onto a
screen during a slideshow while the
teacher excused herself to the restroom.

basically this;  

as to the volumes of books
you have published
over the decades—

i have a few thousand words of
amateur poetry posted online
inside of a few years.


That Said,

for those carefully-placed words
(of mine)
you incorporated into your
latest masterpiece,

realizing poets will not always
happen upon the same instant
at any given intersection,

i recognized that most familiar sensation
we Both get when having correctly
delivered the punchline to the funniest
joke of the evening.

we —in fact— have only the readings
of fellow writers to blame for each
other's blending of creative impulses,

that during these miraculous,
yet humble birthings of verse—

i have it now on good authority,
that we all could possibly exist
within this capacity

                                      as mere equals...



"The Lanyard of Amateur Poetry"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved


.

-

she stands there with
equal curiosity and
reaches as i do
towards the
surface

thinking
how we both
could dismiss the
truth of the glass—

knowing
we each think
alike and are of
the same mind

believing
in each other's
convictions of
being

accepting
the warmth
of our fingertips

to prove we each
exist on opposite
sides

wishing to join
one another

looking deep into
focused eyes

whispering
permission

to allow the
other's hand
to slip aside

and
pass              
through...



s jones
2020



.

0100110110- etc..
  0 & 1 & 2 is 3
         " ? "

i know two numbers,
one and zero

though the "two" cannot exist here,
the inclusion of an additional
element becomes a necessary evil,

for zero once paired becomes
a paradox resulting from three
instances of enumeration

(presumably at once)

since the zero is involved in all this,
its very existence must count, even if
in fact it only represents a void—

to correct this numerical anomaly,
the two must exit this array by first
taking nothing with it...


"a binary mystification"
© 2010 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

the moon is your element,
underneath it you alight
with its pure lunar dew

all senses become the air and
the water as your heartbeat
sends ripples into me

i can feel that and more as fingertips
trace my reaction to it gently
upon your bare skin back

but it seems beyond my capacity to
channel the energy and lift from you
the heaviness of your thoughts

so we sit still as i let you
bathe quietly within
your element

if you happen to glance and
catch me gazing upward,
remember—

the stars, they are
                               all mine...


"As stars eclipse the Moon"
© 2008 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

-


i had wished upon stars once,
picking twinkles in space to
fasten my dreams upon

and the next evening i saw holes
where they used to scintillate,
having fallen from such weight–

i apologized to the sky,
replacing them with
simple hope...



s jones
Mar 2008




.

-


"if a child imparts a spirit into them,
some toys will retain hope,

for —at least— however long the
batteries might hold out..."


I was born on her 7th birthday in 2007, before then I knew nothing.
She held me in wanting hands and her kiss gave Me life.
My soul was born that day and
We fell in love !

I cant remember all the joy and fun we had, too much of it I guess.
She used to dress Me in all kinds of outfits that I loved.
We were One with each other, and would be
Mates for life !

One day she was very sad, she held me tight and
I held her together. Hours went by as Sisters,
Yet —somehow— we drifted apart—

She was learning tough new lessons
while I began a remedial course
in redundancy..

—

—

I cannot imagine how I got here, usually I stayed
on her bedside. I am now boxed and buried
with Her toys of abandonment.  

When !

When did I last see her,
maybe last May ?  

—

"just for once,
—please— take me out
and hold me,
                          please??"

—

i guess
this is the room
where toys are sent to die,
to fade from memory and existence.
There must be more to it than this dark
and lonely space. Am I more but less ???

maybe just,
                      Misplaced ???

—


What did I do wrong???  
She gave me LIFE !!
WHY!!!

—

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
07FF—!!!battery alarm!!!
00B1—!!!MEM_ error!!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My thoughts — going, batteries
about to leak paste now,
weeks now,
and—
                        and i  ... ...

What was I thinking there,
Oh yes!!!
she Will come for me!
Just a bad day
I guess-

Thinking maybe,
She's
              forgotten...




s jones
2007-2020


.

-


feel the heaviness
of invitations
bold,

free fall of purpose,
dissolving into a
whirlpool

circling it's center
thinning number
by number

ten, nine, eight,
se—seven,
six, five,

four~

feather tips
stroking
underneath
upturned
palms

three~

fingertips
light­ly
touching
delicate
doorways

two~

steps away from
loose earth at
the edge,

giving way
to

one ;

submerged as the
membrane above
sleep vaporizes

into web-footed
thrusting through
currents

with "up" rotated
lateral
across the
undertow and
pulling you beneath—

breathe...



s jones
2021



.

-


from between feathered clouds
of the east through branches of
misguided deeds waving crooked
shadows into the window–

and then

penetrating the skin-tight sheet
that wraps around a throbbing
head into a pair of thin
quivering optical blinds—

the rays of Sunday Morning now
blisters a soul in preparation
for a forgiveness—

from Saturday night...



s jones
2022



.

-

i used to imagine as i lie
on my back in the grass

looking downward from
the foot of a great oak

watching squirrels cling to
the thin twigs and wonder

what they would think if
they lost their grip and
fell into the clouds,

sensing they would
splash-land forever—

into heaven...


s jones
2021


.

-


i grew up watching men strolling across
the moon on TV, feature films of rockets,
mars monsters and light trips into infinity
and beyond

believing we would be living
in this "future world" by the
year Two-Thousand—

but the imagery of space shuttles parked
along the streets, rocket bubbles zipping
across tree-top avenues and astronauts
spinning end over end while they wash
high rise windows with computerized
squeegees finally came to an end in 2001

realizing thereafter that
we may remain here on
Earth to throw bones at
our adversaries—

until the last one perishes,
still stranded
                         in orbit..


s jones
Mar 2022


.

-


what do you say to someone
you love from such a distance ?

a stroke could be measured by
how far it is from the first floor
to the intensive care unit

or from the steering wheel
to the door **** of the
hospital entrance

or from your drive way to
the spot where you have to
pay for parking

or from the handset of
your telephone to his ear—

exhausted,

you can only
whisper
into it—

"i love you Daddy"

and hope this time
he can feel your
breath...


s jones
Nov 2021


.

-

nothing might happen if i put
a blank sheet of paper in front
of me and hold a pencil over it
long enough to count the number
of beats it takes for my heart to
forget why i wanted to give up
on writing—

and then i notice a teardrop
right in the center of it...


                               
                        ,





.

s jones
2021

-

hiding either in
a bathroom
or behind a desk,
a single hand can render
a mass manipulation
of mentality,

yanking along with it
by-way-of an
electronic leash,

the soul–

as if so many fingernails
were being driven into
these thin plastic
brain coffins—

millions
of
       them...



s jones
2021


.

-


why is it that on certain
occasions i cannot
digest    

 )—* ~Poetry~*—(

?

this exquisite food-for-thought
which tumbles like shot rock
into my belly-bag underneath
the dining room table

usually due to an absence of a
detailed chewing on my part

yet,
there persists
this terrific hunger—

thus on some evenings
you will find me
writing
my own dinner...



s jones
2023



.

my footfalls translate to mileage in the
way that feathers can be lost to a given
amount of wing beats—

each iteration of propulsion will shed
bits of material,

and these are mixed into the sands that are
splashed across beaches, bleached and
eventually broken down into elemental shapes

one of those grains flew and landed on a
boardwalk and then another one
kicked it aside many years ago
by some distant shoreline,

they now lie together in my path—
why i know this is anyone's guess,
but surely the math is in my favor

needless to say, even if my remains withstand
the sands of time there wont be anyone
left to recognize me,

yet i am certain a piece of me will always
be a few steps ahead somewhere,

either washed there from a recent gale,
or maybe blown from the nostrils
of a passing sea gull...

"shoes and feathers"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

-


Looking out into the Dawn,
frost is a welcomed viewing,
snows hesitate here once again,
this Day is gentle to us.

through the clear blue, He looks
down and gazes upon the Earth
as i sit here in quiet reflection.

the only sounds are the shudders
of the refrigerator motor as it
kicks on and off,

the warm air blowing
thankfully through
the floor vent,

the pops and crackling
of joints, both of me &
the chair,

and the heartbeats that
He listens to intently-

the thought of this
reminding me—

i am never alone...


s jones
25 Dec 2007


.

-

~since the Past is a memory
supported by evidence  
of what was once "now"–

~and the Future is a mental
projection forward since it
has not yet happened–

figuring for the nerve impulse
latency to the brain, which
in turn must process
this information—

we therefore experience
the Present in Past tense,

relying upon the Future
to fuel a continued
existence.


Meanwhile...


s jones
2021


.

-

i lie here beneath unfinished skies,
watching a rainbow evaporate
into shadows of daylight

my intellection suggests they are
made from billions of thumbs and
forefingers holding tiny mirrors

between me and my beyond,

lying to us with images of ambiguous
white columns in a gigantic panorama
of shape-shifting mistakes that constantly
reposition to hide the flaws

but i can easily make out these errors,
committed upon sensing inadequacy–
adjusting abstract creativity mapped
with ill-conceived perfection

which is likely what blew
this rainbow apart ,
the precipitation here was
so immense !

and somewhere—

droplets rise to form a tremendous new arc,
glimpsed now by a humble roofer
who wishes only that the sun
would hide once again...


s jones
2021


.

-

lying on a closet floor
that stretches for over
two decades—

memories

messages, pictures and songs
from back in the day stored
inaccessibly in a rusting box
that has not functioned in years

and next to it, a laptop with a
deployed CD tray sits sideways
partially draped by a sheet

these machines may have
shared stories once,
but its doubtful they really
knew each other

—

miles away in a nursing home
a petrified brain rests in some
kind of medicated peace

while another lays quietly on his
side under a blanket watching
for the other one's last breath

hearing kids just outside
laughing into their devices —

he hopes for a chance to take
his last spin on –anyone's–
old record player...



s jones
2021

.

-

" You have no real sense of meter,
your rhyming is non-existent
and you spell like a brat,
following no rules"

Rules?

i didnt know i had to follow
any rules, 'cept the ones in my
head that represent limitation

"Well, you need to read up
on some of the more classic
"recognized" poets—
Learn the Proper Etiquette !"

Dood,

i have read more than a few lines
of that finer moem-age poem-age,
and if you want to write about why
roses are red on fine sheets of poet paper
with a fountain pen in the fashion of Kipling—

Cool;

i will more likely write about how well Violet blew
over the top of a half empty jug of bourbon with
a ball point pen that skips more or less
in the style of Bukowski—

and then someone can say that
we had both written poems
about Colorful Flowers...



© 2020
.

-


i cast only shadows
of twilight,

but like a ghost, i can
spoon deceptively well~

following just a fingernail away,
i can scrape the periphery of your
senses at any given moment

yet i remain outside a passing glance,
just beyond the visual reach of mirrors

for i am the corpse you sleep with nightly,
evidenced by those occasional scratch marks
i leave on your shoulders, neck, buttocks

the thing you've spent most of your lifespan
dismissing as some graveside mourner you
simply turned your eyes away from

yet as a faucet of sand left dripping,
you pool into the spaces between
the plankings of oblivion

Someday,

you will wake to a rope-snap
suspension upon the gallows
of my choosing

as you pour out the last
grain from the hourglass
of your lifespan

your fingertips slipping
down its smoothed
surfaces

— knowing — 

as i watch you
fall away

from far,
far
         above...



s jones
May 2021


.

-

i hope we do not
(as a species)
"evolve"
into islands of
six foot radius circles
adrift upon oceans of
Social Media,

as Billionaires scoop up
space with the vacuum
of our losses

and then water ski across
surfaces of what once was
our own footsteps.

They Know—

we can not afford
to dog-paddle
our way across
their private
pool


by our wealth
                            alone...


s jones
2021

.

-


fine grains of desert air
stir into the tightening
manifestation of a

warrior slain in a charge
with such quickness—

he ran several paces before
jettisoning his weakened
vessel in order to continue

the assault...


s jones
2021




.

-

four hours into a slow night with little
else to do but sip coffee. images through
the window wound me with new ways
to feel older, draping me out with all the

ribbons from New Year's past which got
ripped from those babies who later grew
up to become waiters and waitresses—

from what i can make out, some kid is
busting a table across the street wearing
a button-down shirt with a black tie,

he will likely work a couple more hours
and head out some place wearing the
reverse of this with an abundance
of youth to flaunt for all those
girls who actively seek

something
                       Better–

Ohhh !
He is looking
this way now !!!
i think..


somehow i feel this brushing of
unfamiliar shoulders as our worlds
of witnessing empties between these
panes of our circumstance, my ambered
line of sight cross–ray'd  with the beams
of his hot-white glare–

i watch dimly as he smiles at that
young lady with the red umbrella
crossing the street between us..

Yeah..

a few blinks later he will disappear
behind a partition and i will then
turn my attention inwards,

day-dreaming away the remainder
of my shift about hopeful
exchanges for

Something–
                        better...


s jones
2021


.

-


we are all imaged by those
who would see us at our best

along with the paint that
inevitably chips away
in yearly frosts
and summer
droughts

because we will remain
—as always—
the easel upon which
God was inspired to
draw us...



s jones
Feb 2022



.

-

i once had a bowl of
alphabet soup that
cussed me out

moody soup i suppose,
maybe too much salt

it only took all of three stirs
to resume composure

nevertheless i have favored
literally innocuous
types of soup ever since

not so much from me
being onion-skinned,
but simply for the fact—

i would prefer to eat
as opposed to
entertaining such
potentially disturbing
conversations
over the dinner table...

s jones
2021


.

-

Just basically an accounting of
language as it is conveyed
between media types

namely,

Air, Silicone and Mail ;

in Air,
you have to
basically be ready to
respond within a reasonable
period, say about three or four seconds

upon Silicone, you could "afk" and then
mix a drink- rinse out the mixing
utensils and type a response
with some degree of
forethinking

in Air,
you could breath
in the real-time vibes that
trigger automatic subject sensitivity,
like, (something too disturbing for me to detail here)

upon Silicone, you would be able to digitally
sort and discard these disturbing elements
and then lie to yourself about the
true weight of the
conversation


in Air,
a comedian can
deliver a punchline in
order to impulse a laugh out of you,
even to the point of spitting out your wine

upon Silicone, latency can cause punchlines
to be misinterpreted as an offense, which
will likely sully those carefully
established digital
relationships

—

You
could encode
the Air in the fashion
that Native Americans did
with campfires and blankets,

but i would never suggest that
you try and breath Silicone__ !

nor pattern the "the ins and outs"
of breathing within the basic scope
of a vacuum in order to encode
it upon a microchip that
can only be read by
a machine—

either way, in case you
may not have noticed,

Personal Letters are —at this moment—
asphyxiating into blue screen
oblivion,
deep inside the
Lost Mailbags of Redundancy...




"Comm_Check"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved


.

-

the switch reveals a hesitation
acted upon with unconscious
awareness as my fist releases
its grip from the door ****

altered yet again by another
iteration, just enough–

i blink each morning into
the mirrors just behind
the surfaces of my eyes—

to rinse and later return
to the place
that burns them...


s jones
2021

-


there is decidedly too much space
between us and the spool

all this rope and not enough bone
within our fingers to get
a good grip

and

with too many moons having past
to notice any stars from the bottom
of this nightmare dream well—

do we just
drip ?...


s jones
2022



.

-


joined by an imaginary sinew,
four walls featuring dust
compressed into sheet rock

face away from one another.

smooth within and
on the outside,
brick

like so many houses in
this neighborhood–

everyone is insulated from the
empty stares over so much
strewn building material

yet —somehow—we are
protected from the rain

—

the oldest wall
no longer
stands

the others slowly
fracture

my wall—

shedding tears like
tiny shells piling
upon a beach

breaks with the
waves into
shards of sand—

leaving ashes 
and
               dust...



s jones
2023




.

-

feathered smudges like a floor spatter from
Jackson Pollard covered the lanes underneath
an old L&N railroad overpass where flocks
of pigeons used to **** from above

tiny pellets were sprinkled along the
rail banks & eager beaks pushed aside
large stones to pick out these "yummies"
which slid easily down the throat
causing vacant, fixed pupils

it is about thirteen foot-six inches from
the bottom of the bridge to the street,
hundreds of detached eyes looked
aimlessly from the pavement
for a sky to rise in

motorists rolled up the windows as they
approached for a finishing pass, hoping
maybe they would all eventually wash
away with the rains

i see a morning dove landing on my
porch railing, it's tiny black lenses
zooming into me through the window

causing me to think if maybe there is
a talon or a couple of small bones
embedded tread-wise into my tire

a vision now manifests some
thirteen foot, six inches away—

all those
                  eyes...


s jones
2009-2021


.

-


decades ago this was a tasty
quick meal between ten
hour shifts and sleep

tangy cheese in a metal container
that i cooked on a burner as the
shells boiled to a full fluff nearby

i mixed in some diced ham that
in of itself could have filled
a morning omelet,
had i the time—

to—day’s products consist of
much smaller shells that boil
into gooey blobs

and cheese– sealed in some kind
of chemically pre-melted state
inside of a silver bag,

and ham—

packed in smaller cans–
very much tasting like
the machines that process it.

i wonder now what level of
creature is low enough to
be able to live off of this

to within what measure
of survival

or—

if in fact this stuff
could actually be
                            
eating  it...


s jones
2021


.

-

i spread sugar across the kitchen table
and use my index finger to start from
deep scratch, penetrating it's layer to
the smooth wooden surface below

writing characters into gritty detail
within it's fine grainy media, i finish
each line without any practical means
to re-work the structure

they are my sweet licks by finger tips,
rows of tasty words that lay bare upon
a temporary tablet— in a raw form
which will soon be swept into a dust pan

just a musing on a mess at a place
meant for dining, i remove my
thoughts with a hand held brush—

yet traces of its ghost now linger
in a fragile film awaiting your
consumption...


s jones
2008-2021


.

-

i tell myself sometimes–

"Cut !"

when i remember
out of impulse
some bad event(s)

playing on a taped
loop of myself
screaming—

and denied scissors
capable of putting
ends to it...



s jones
Mar 2022

.

-

Cats possess this thing
about their rears that they
flaunt with impunity

wielding it to express their
unique personal opinions
at the moment

uncurling outwards and
upwards and around then
back downwards

sweeping around table legs
swishing side to side and
then slipping underneath

towards no one
in particular

they sometimes will
form the shape of
the letter "C"
coil into a "S"
straighten to an "i"
or if startled, an "!"

but not a "Z",
never a "K"
and no "E"s,
definitely
not—

and certainly
not an "X"
unless two
stand end
to end

maybe four of them
can gather and
form a "W"

but given their nature,
would they not
question "Y"—
? ...


s jones
© 2008


.