Goodman’s Garden
Where did they all go? Thickets of love and pain rustle in a dry light and skeins of corvidae traipse…
Winter Words
Calendar pages: one scrumpled day dies in a garden spun to fools’ gold, where wind mews over twigs and bones…
Monsieur Clermont
That August, in La France Profonde, the frelons were out in force, honey-gold cruisers of late summer air, their poigniards…
Mynheer Wouwermans
From the long ride, fresh trees licked by enough blue light to cross-patch antique trousers, we come at last past…
Out of Reach
Think of a hand-slip, a spun summit bothered by mist, the whirr and thrum of dark metals, a stranded face…
For God, King and Country
Flags and flowers: three bloody years worked in silk. At the needle’s eye stand easy, ghost, slip through my fingers…
