For Ave­line de Rais Rubin­shteyn she is stand­ing in thrall to the tem­pest she has noth­ing to lose but her hide she knows all the tricks and she’s seen all the hicks and she’s secretly crying inside her skin is a rock­ing horse pal­impsest she has noth­ing to give but her…

these pared down, har­rowed days con­jured from flame and fer­vour spread thin like a cry drawn from parched lips; like an ache refrac­ted. in our cities, bodies drift like sparks in con­flag­ra­tions — ash-light; empty rhet­oric falls gnarled as tinder. what foul seraphs…

Ah winter, your vaul­ted roofs are sand­stone And your halls are chill. Your cor­ridors echo with a lone brown oak leaf and the south wind. On the steps, a philo­sopher dreams civil­iz­a­tion, Smoke curl­ing around his fantas­ies. Winter, You are a proud ancient thing, settled…

For my Grand­mother She is old and crimped like a pinched-off string Yes­ter­day was filled with memor­ies of but­ter­cups She made dolls of moun­tain devils when they were babes Tomor­row, a glass of sherry on her own, in her room Yes­ter­day was filled with memor­ies of…