Poems
When life hides behind the mulch / of what lives, can they expect more / than this refusal to hold each other in the open?
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What is the use of a full moon / now we do not harvest by its light? // There is no one else standing here, / lifting their face to the star-studded sky.
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Because of its gloomy appearance the building is like a defeated army, and the gloom is so heavy it makes handling difficult and postage quite out of the question.
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My husband has returned. A traveller whose flight was cancelled has found his way home. He slowly unpacks while I make space for the unexpected.
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Beneath the Creator’s reach, the Golden Ratio / of tourist thrum stirs guards to the mike. / Silenzio. Silence. No photo. No video.
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Beside the fountain’s troupe of sun-bleached rubber ducks, / in the gardens, under a shade sail, / my father is crying about Winston Churchill. / Midway through a lunch of cremated schnitzel ...
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We bring the horses back to their own fields because we like / To see them among purple hay as if they signify black seeds / A hoof can break any kind of feeling along a dramatic stretch / The gate is where I go to then proclaim my woes to his street ...
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There’s no getting away from things. / There is driving, then walking miles / along a quiet coast on a rising tide – / with the back-of-the-mind consciousness / that in an hour or so the sea ...
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Imagine how the light / fell on their desks. / Clerks in rotation / elbowed into the ’30s / with their heated office / coffee unimpeded ...
... (read more)Before you could say Jack Robinson, I was posting / a letter in the box that looks like a lean-to / at the crepuscular end of the mind. The fire-fangled glow / from the South kept sending small birds into the air ...
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