I no one remembers, I, piecemeal, homeless beneath/ The hoarding , my cardboard bed, my newspaper / Covers, my death stare /
Keep ReadingDead Women in Old Stories Above the hills a starry slate the lights} on the coast a necklace weight of faded-flower yellows moonlight suspends the tides the
More1 At the window, last night’s words, ashen Against the glass Black petals in the vase, delicate As the hour fading from us Their deep scent stirring us From deeper dreams Sleepwalkers,
MoreThe Dead Zone North from Kiev, empty roads The light of other summers opens among the pages. In the photograph, your face, fragile as pink shells washed along the beach; the
MoreBeyond St Catherine’s Hill, the long chalice of river sluices through the city, canals Romans cut dividing the Itchen into die-straight races. Surrounding the Cathedral, water meadows; a roe deer grants audience,
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