Pine tree on a moonless night

The moon thinned past threads

Knows not tree from stone

Where do the mountains

Come down to earth

Where does the sea

Know its end

In spite of

watercolor paintings of shells | shell 07 watercolor

He came from one of the last

unwrapped spires

and smelled like nude chirality

like the nature we have shed

And he walked walls instead

of floors, and ate the air

instead of words

the barbarian we used to be

He did not look at me, but wore

every colour of the sky and more

around his neck

This, I think, is the only explanation


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Winter Heath

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When better days have ridden

Their ribbons of mist under the dawn

Receding to the hollows

And hidden places they came from

We only lose ourselves in searching

For time’s wealth backward wound

But palliate in smaller comforts

That on snow-swept heaths are found



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The driftwood makes nests for daggers

Because this is unexpected

Coming from the sea

The long shadows become like friends

Well-anticipated, and as liable

To embrace, or to strike

As to slip away