Writing

In Famagusta he dreamed of a piano in the Alps. Fetal in the shivering heights…

The soul was the it that spoke without pronouns, dreaming all that would befall, enduring…

Bitter Rude Rogue Three English words scrawled in a margin of Tacitus. Not for certain…

Verlaine’s wife glimpsed naked in the reconciling light of the wagon-lit. He coughed a dandy’s…

Paris lay open to receive him. The police were busy as bees, and working from…

Under the shadow of Notre Dame. No address, no visible means of support. Besides which,…

That same Communion year, his light- sequestering eye looked through a microscope. Beheld (awe, and…

On the morning table, beside his breakfast of coffee and buttered bread: a packet of…

And does it matter on which side of the river the snow fell heaviest? French…

(in memoriam B.S. Johnson, 1933-1973) White platter, garnished labial with fronds of wild mint, trenched…