Now this is a city held by winter,
and this is a glass splinter.
Now this is a day as short as a short vowel,

The limerick walked by the shore,
and watched the night eat the sun raw.
It lay by the wharfs,

Summer is hitting Gloucestershire like starlight spitting at a black slab of cloud.
The fields are not really made of greenness, it is the color of steel or a seabed.

A pink shaded car rises up into the pink shades or strips of the sky.
The top of the road flickers or jumps with the small wildness of an
insect’s wings.

Nearly anyone who has ever spoken to me may know me better than I do,
it is really not that difficult.

So I sat amongst cushions that were white and nervous.
The strictness of light stood in piles.

The dull little stones are keeping themselves to themselves, as stones do.

“Listening to music is a strange act, and Mozart’s music is an education fit for a world in motion and the selves in motion within it.”

  While driving back from a party through the warm London night last Monday evening, I decided to tell my girlfriend about Stanley Cavell’s interpretation of Macbeth. The story does not reflect any better on me, if you know the essay in questi…

I was with some poetry friends in a pub near Holborn, shooting the breeze before a reading two of us were participating in. The breeze was fairly dark on that day, for various reasons. It was the weekend following Donald Trump’s inauguration for o…