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Snow on blue roof tiles—sleeping village awakened by waves.

Her hips, her pelvis, broke free of concerns. His eyes hovered.

I read cookbooks the way I do poetry, with a willingness to be transported.

He was living like a coyote, out on the margins. But then a letter came.

Out by the road was her son standing without a stitch of clothing.

Christopher Woods

She was the idiot who fell in love with some high-class gigolo.

He felt desperate for the rains, mosquitoes be damned.

The grass is always greener in the cemetery, was a joke I made to Jed.

In the closet: a single hair draped from the one hanger left.

I’m no longer the buzzards glooming over the mango tree.

I bought two for my wedding, planted them in pots on the patio by the pond.

The willows crack as the startled deer flee into a deeper darkness.

The owl was a white that could not be compromised by any other color.

Society was imposing, like something out of an English drama.

The clown has taken a seat at our veranda table in absolute silence.

Through all this the sands kept vigil, harboring blood and bones.

On Christmas Day, we lost one of our great advocates for poetry.

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens her first rose

Beached on the kingdom I learned to swim with my eyes closed.

Ahab went mad when he saw the sea is just the sea and nothing more.

My first memory is the day of mourning after John Lennon died.

I was a darling without even trying, kerchief and dungarees.

All night, rain from the distant past. I sometimes waken as a child.

No one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a pencil.

The horror of the waste appalls me. This beauty. This habitation of dream.

Wanderer moon smiling a faintly ironical smile at this summer morning—

Three rooms, sight unseen, rented from a nurse and her husband.

My body. Stop the air. Travel by stopping, full stop, just there.

sunrise reminds the shama to emerge from her perch in the pandanus tree