At home now the first grey 
in the hollows, morning in 
the grass, in the brick 

Homer playing
         violin
as he could have,

Okay         A nightingale 
does sing 
                 outside this window 

The whole man has no corners. He curves and curves.

Two who had loved in each other’s eyes met strangeness.
Wonder at loss. Distance.

August was foggy,
September dry.
October grew too hot.

the curvd lines toe-drawn, round cornerd squares
bulge out doubles from its single pillar line, like,
Venus of the Stone Age.

Sea birds over the river
Hover in my dreams at night.

I have built a world for myself
slowly, and without design

I am one of those tainted, corrupted ones
who got green bile stuck in her throat,
who cant even speak