He texts about the weather. Cues a domino dropped of shops, their fronts make way for prows, with navy-grey erasing chimneys and pools inches outside below gulfing the building. Never a town or a storm or a pair’s friendship shown – only weaving cloud monkeys. Cocking glances at a perplexing now, mowing it or aContinue reading “Poem: From Me to Him in Rain that is Fine”
the subway train and
its mid-air bounce.
Choose a chat, one each please, that white…
Dear Bob and Roberta Smith. This is a letter of ten foot high thanks for the multitude of paint stuck and shaped seen today. I write outside the Harris Gallery where a rocked pram’s wheels rotate and spin regardless of the couple nearly fighting to the side of coloured slats boarding my eyes. I remem-Continue reading “Poem: ‘Dear Bob and Roberta Smith’”
We make an art of common things,
little changed from Yeats’ deep darkly inside…