Because spring is not quite summer, Jenny Boully’s [one love affair]* is the perfect book of poetry to read in summer while wistful for spring. Or thinking of past loves and varieties of flowers. Or perhaps it is not a book of poetry at all, but a collection of sentences as ephemeral as, “an emptiness floating within the hollow of her pond boat.” In any season, you might open Boully’s book and read a sentence that says, “On the dock over the sea, everything smells like flowers and trees, the too-perfect scenery was all make-believe” and wonder when she writes, “I only said I loved you in my poetry” if the truth was in the speaking, in the poetry, or in all three being too fleeting to pin down; like a lepidopterist rolling a pupa between her fingers, eager for the butterfly she will one day mount and examine.