Jeffery Donaldson’s Fluke Print reflects on chance occurrences, on quiet, familiar scenes and impressions—prints, if you will—in which ‘Each word’s a wake that, glancing, folds aside / in parting phrases, under a furrowed brow, / then opens into passing stillnesses...’ His is a poetic world in which myth and memory are fitting counterparts to science and knowledge; in which pain, passion, and patience are equally worthy sources of inspiration; in which space and time are relative concepts, illusions of each other, points of intersection on a continuum that is vast and may, in the end, be unknowable.
In Fluke Print, Donaldson invites readers to don the mantle of a man filled with questions and doubt, to approach the cagey, skittish muse, to conjugate the moods of selfhood and to seek apprenticeship to a great scholar of being.
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