Friday, October 7, 2022

Perfection

It was one of those perfect English autumnal days
        which occur more frequently in memory than in life.

                        P. D. James, A Taste for Death






at
  • Poem: So This Is Nebraska
    The gravel road rides with a slow gallop over the fields, the telephone lines streaming behind, its billow of dust full of the sparks of the...
  • Poem: Passover
    Tell me: how is this night different, from all other nights? How, tell me, is this Passover, different from other Passovers? Light the lamp,...
  • Poem: Dislocation
    I envy those who envy me for traveling. Sometimes I sit on a foreign street in a busy cafe, imagining you wishing you were here, ...