The rooks that rise above the serried ranksof homes augur unease as thoughsoil itself has not settled, knows notwhat memory knows (or …
Poems
The last great melt is scored through eachlayer of these cliffs – these shelly driftsbelow our home, cut clean by the knifeof …
Somewhere still a machinedraws red margins on a page like this one.Strung up and dipped in ink, it is a loom for …
It’s the movement of rock in the molten core and the hair’s breadth shift of the moon that has foxed the atomic …
This town is stitched by river – that finds and winds its way through trees whose leaves curl yellow and every poem …