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

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

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

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.

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.

Alone, which has grown to mean without you,
        I sweat in our old bed. In the bay, the storm’s orchestra tunes. 
Thunder, and my next expression is one of yours.

Learning to say “So what?”
in every other language,
I rolled between cities 

my emptiness has a lake in it   deep and watery 
with several temperaments      milk   cola  beer 

at night the selves are made of water 
all the openings flooded    streaming with rain 

The silks of France will always be finer than those of England,
and the woolens of England finer than those of France,
and we are born wanting 

In the end we are no more than our own stories: 
mine a few brief passages in the Book, 
no further trace of plot or dialogue.