(Dear reader, the layout of this poem is important — I did my best with wordpress, but if words go a wandering on your screen, it’s available here as a pdf).
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in a poem weather’s never weather, there’s something other:
behind that cloud, transitory; in back of sunshine, egg.
if it’s raining, it’s not raining; if it’s bright it’s harsh
if the valley’s brimmed with fog, well maybe…
A red-whiskered bulbul (before)
head back calling
in the evening
in the neighbour’s olive tree —
‘wee-whit-h-h-h-h-who’ , ‘wee-wee-h-h-h-h-twuk’.
hang ears in chandeliers
tie cams to hummingbird wings
bribe the barista & delivery guy
badger dormouse & eavesdrop on
spidey’s sticky lines
(after William Bronk)
back then was much the same
the scope, the skies:
blues and greens, scarlet cloud-tops
the moon electric on the washing line. Continue reading
(after Stevens, closely)
I
Among twenty locked-down blocks,
the only moving thing
was the patrol car. Continue reading
an ancient comb in the Met.
animals parade across an ivory page Continue reading
Peter Frankis writes 