I have grown old and crabbed early in this winter air muscles filled with the crack­ling of dis­dain throat grown pained with clenched rep­rim­ands i am too soon snarled in a twine of neg­at­iv­ity i do not startle when others cannot pen­et­rate to the spring and autumn…

I’m three kinds of awk­ward: the tack in the carpet the crumb in your throat the foot in my mouth I’m dead silent down­cast eyes I’m a steam train in a daisy meadow my words are lepers shunned I’m infec­tion I’ve got so many jagged edges no hole will ever be cre­ated that…

She asks me to write about work, as if there can be any hues worth com­ment in this dusty place. The clam­our and the end­less cry of tor­tured equip­ment, squeal­ing beeps and elec­tronic col­li­sions. I parry with flutes and viola de gamba. We are drowned together. Through…

if i am writ­ing to you again (and it seems odd, i admit) i turn to you to lament if i am writ­ing to you now, i con­fess, it is merely pro­cras­tin­a­tion: i should be writ­ing dull news for other read­ers partly, this letter is because it seems you have now found something…

For Michelle and Thorfinn What stirs me is long flow­ing hair and a tend­ency to touch the sky with easy fin­ger­tips. Cas­cad­ing strands of amber, coral, jet, burnt umber, fall­ing past smooth throats, slim torsos, down to jaunty waists and lean hips Lanky thin limbs…