fallow
even as I beat these keys with my fist / they resist, spring springs back
I groan, hammer the veins in my head / as if effort would suffice
all winter’s rawness: the burnished furrow, the cornstalk wrecks
the sky’s a lambent column
all the way to space. Continue reading
after Rilke
After the spoiled summer
grey grey grey
grant us, Lord, this
one honeyed hour Continue reading
The old mandarin’s in fruit again. Green nuggets mostly but some are already turning.
The girl is pegging towels into the pull and slap of the Southerly. The wind has dried her hair into a russet frizz. ‘Look at me,’ she says turning her head from side to side, laughing. Continue reading
Peter Frankis writes 