Jackson

This dropped as a bird fluttered free from a claw. This: black waves, soft sines gathered and stitched along a wand. This is not an artefact. Between its closed hooked ranks its flaw, a slit, diffracts the light. I long to give the smooth folds of this to my fingers, take its intricate truth, but… Read more

The Tao that can be trodden is not | The random clicks of a geiger … The skilful masters in old times | Had cnts that curved space … He who stands on his tip toes | Still can’t reach the bulb Read more

Socks, after KonMari, sushi-rolled and set in lines. I am a little girl again, singing a pattern, stripes and blacks. Like so many backs. Moslems crouched in a crowded mosque. Buddhists prostrated before a statue. Yogis curled in child’s pose. I am seventeen again. Bono raises the white flag. On a Sunday, Bloody Sunday. This… Read more

I want to live on the streets like he did begging from village to village with my poems. / A man could do that and retain his dignity. / A man could do that. / A woman has more sense than to do that. Read more

I wore a red bra … // We talked about a poem whose … // And I thought of how many reds /      I seem to need /      to counter the grayscale of things, Read more

I dream a dog, / large, yellow, short-chained / to the rear wall of my house, / in sun, rain, / starlight, lunging / and snarling. Its man comes / and goes. I can stand the days, / … Read more