Now this is a city held by winter,
and this is a glass splinter.
Now this is a day as short as a short vowel,

The limerick walked by the shore,
and watched the night eat the sun raw.
It lay by the wharfs,

Summer is hitting Gloucestershire like starlight spitting at a black slab of cloud.
The fields are not really made of greenness, it is the color of steel or a seabed.
Maybe you will be able to dig down into Gloucestershire as if it was a page to be turned,

“Listening to music is a strange act, and Mozart’s music is an education fit for a world in motion and the selves in motion within it.”

  While driving back from a party through the warm London night last Monday evening, I decided to tell my girlfriend about Stanley Cavell’s interpretation of Macbeth. The story does not reflect any better on me, if you know the essay in questi…

I was with some poetry friends in a pub near Holborn, shooting the breeze before a reading two of us were participating in. The breeze was fairly dark on that day, for various reasons. It was the weekend following Donald Trump’s inauguration for o…