Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.

A Nothing We Were, Are, Shall Remain, Flowering: The Nothing--, The No One's Rose.

Rush Of Pine Scent (once Upon A Time), The Unlicensed Conviction There Ought To Be Another Way Of Saying This.

Illegibility Of This World. All Things Twice Over. The Strong Clocks Justify The Splitting Hour, Hoarsely. You , Clamped Into Your Deepest Part, Climb Out Of Yourself For Ever.

No One Bears Witness For The Witness

How You Die Out In Me: Down To The Last Worn-out Knot Of Breath You're There, With A Splinter Of Life.