The sky is pitiless. I beg
your pardon? OK then
the sky is pitted. The yard

I'll tell you who I am: someone
you never met
though on a train you studied a boil on my neck

Then I do not know what
to paste next in the
Trash Book: grass, pretending

I hate my disordered
backyard fence

For her size the moor hen
lays a large egg
and many of them

Visitor to Witley Court
enter at your peril

It’s time again. 
Tear up the violets 
and plant something more difficult to grow. 

On his knees, his back to us: the pale honeydew melons of his
        bare buttocks, the shapely, muscular hemispheres—

        the voluptuous center.

It was deja vu all over again.

I know this town like the back of my head.

People who live in glass houses are worth two in the bush.

Although I was tenacious, I never learned
  the wisdom and will of tenacity;
Although I was persistent, and praised for persistence,