Unmoored on an ocean of heather
no wind to pluck the strings
of the aeolian harp

Those night boats are back.
Fishermen string their nets
Counting fresh catch.

That was the time you caught
the mumps and I was half
afraid I’d catch it too.

Walking home from the lecture on Frankenstein
through the November mizzle, small breaths of exhaust
sighing in the twilight headlights, particles of wet air commingling.

    Octopus I am one Like short of being beautiful. Five hundred more Followers, I’m away to fight culture wars. I Block two for lies Quora does not verify. Counter-factuals are ok, there’s simmering wastelands to make out of vague, but someone sent a shroom...

It doesn’t trust paper. It writes itself
in my head where no one can reach it,
laugh, tear it to shreds, or
call it a waste of space, a disgrace.

It was a quiet day—
no bad news,
no sudden loss,
no reason to hold my breath.

I think today of the boy in choir class
who closed his eyes when we sang
about Jesus. Who swayed, as if the Lord

We saw a kingfisher threading the bright needle
of his body along the river. We saw a shag, stamping
her prehistoric shadow on the sky. We saw a hobby,