after Koch/Cohen, Malley/Breton, Roussel!
This, too, is about a thousand characters. It’s much like the
last one. I wouldn’t even read beyond the following sentence.
The following sentence is a silky thing – purple in the late
day, drizzled in afternoon fog. Inside a microwave oven is
Obama has said that the person with whom he would most like to dine is Gandhi....
Angels are made from banksia. They are grown in Prague, are
Exported in all directions, and turn grey in air. They
Only fly in places where the ground is hard. If
You try to count them they turn into numbers. If
You try to call them they turn into names. They
Are not decorative at parties but illustrative, of Guernica, for example
It is a kind of sleep we must learn,
seasonal as spiders, our bodies
weights no web can hold.
sparrow strung up
one foot knotted
in an accidental
I bury her
neck soft as ribbon
she crouches at my
They are stored in a box,
Seeing people who remind you
just a little of the dead
is always mildly disconcerting –
something in the face, the gait,
the shoulders from behind,
those likenesses that don’t surprise
I am building my roof of turf my peaty sheath
a coveted blanket roll me up in it and I go out
like a light like the wisp rising at night
that country people swear they see and steer clear of