I lift my cone to hers
As if drinking a toast.
Her pink tongue, like a cat’s,

Powder-blue, deckle-edged,
And worn with fingering, 
A batch of letters, filed 

A woman of wool lies on a couch covered with pale shawls.
The way it holds her, she and the couch are almost one.
Cold fingers the shawls but she is warm. Though gravely ill.

Food for the fat is like air. It fills you up
and lifts you out of the chair where otherwise
you sit like a dead seal.

The morning’s horn extended a palmful of 
   sand. I felt a dry sprig on my face, frozen

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.

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

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

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

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,