Borrowing his inciting action from Jack Spicer’s own audacious correspondence with the ghost of Lorca, Scott Inguito turns what could easily be a one-note project (in many senses, really) into a chamber piece, a suite of elegant and lyric epistles. Inguito mines a rich timbre imbued with loss—“for what voice is so insinuating as that of the unhappiest”—as well as the familiar conversational tones of a garden party attendee. Shifting effortlessly between these voices, he creates a pure poetry, muscular and playful, full of reversals that never cease to disarm and charm. Spicer should be rolling over in his grave. In a good way.

— D.A. Powell