Settled in water, we shape, and beneath candlelit sheet of perfume, we steam hips, ribs, spine and shins with no space between. I write you as reflections in chrome. * Of the Ouse, the Tyne, the Wear, we weave slow-flowing poems of their cool streams - We threshold their bridges, seek margins unseen: I write … Continue reading Reflections In Chrome.
She'll claim it to be a tune, but this just cannot be true. Ono coughing on a spoon in a bat cave, with the flu.
The dogs, marking sand with brief print, ancient scratch-language, lengthen and, boundless, plunge at the cones of surf, smashing them, barking. * A lone figure travails the blown beach. He drags a suitcase. He looks up from his feet and seems surprised to find another living here and, as we pass, I see that the … Continue reading The Empty Benches.
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