It's snowing on Dartmoor.The boulders of Stonehenge,by persisting with their secretare emptied of mystery.On the apple treebraided rootspierced by rain's knives.Water and bloodthe
AND YET IT BEGINS (1) There was someone someone was spread into the black sun like starlings made of dust where she in the tingling, buckling, in balloons that gracefully touched a
A book? From cover to cover? I lack the strength. Even poetry – just thinking about it – exhausts me now. I’ve overdosed on poems, stare blindly at the pages of my books. For
A Perfect Jordi Accent Emily Dickinson said that she knew she was reading a poem if she felt that, the top of her head were taken off. This image seems incongruously violent as if
