Put on your million-dollar suit and drive the fly to the hospital, then a quick lunch of vassals and serfs with a simple glass of kerosene. Thus nourished, dive into the liquidity of bundled mortgages on homes for howitzers and seashells gathered on a recent trip to Mars. Gravity is super strong today Top up…

That wall perhaps was made of local stoneThree centuries before, alive with fissuresCracked by frost and colonized in moss —Some stones had fallen to the scented moor The poets of today revere the dust,The weed that through the tarmac drills,The lichen that dissolve and paint raw concrete, All blossoms in the trash of highway verges.…

Behold the subterranean lumpOf white or yellowish hue: Naming it will often stumpAnd bitter arguments ensue. A swede? A turnip? Rutabaga?A neep?  Perchance a crisp jicama?Its nomenclature’s quite a saga(you see how this turns into drama). To disambiguate this mess Is really not that tough;We’ll go by colour.  Don’t obsessUnless you’re a true veggie buff.…

Attend to shadows, wind and stoneas nightbats jaggedly askewthe river where you wadeas fishes sip the violet duskthat falls upon the eddy whorlsthen turn their silvered flanks at water’s edge you’ll find a charmengraved and sacred, smoothed by timeand touch — long-treasured, lost then dream of lying tombed in shalelocked as a fossil pressed by…

Virginia Woolf at fifty-nineWorn thin by an infiniteDrizzle of syllables,A pluvial onslaught of words. The last walls are breached;Inside, a well of circular echoes,Disembodied voices, fleshless phrases —Insistent, suffocating. Virginia Woolf at fifty-nineCrossed the river meadowsIn green spring sun,Pausing once to choose a river stoneOf heft enough, round, water smooth, And pushed it in the…