Eveningsong Slim sun-edged thumb Of Roman brick Umbered, undone This late valley dozing Under a late spring sun You still want what will not last Still before the blue At evening, sound, come * (this poem originally appeared in Oxford’s halfcircle poetry journal, Issue 2)

Morning through the window, the inner courtyard: no shaft but throat, the space, the pearlflecked light now cotton, now cocooned. Tea. A candle. The same sweater worn for weeks. Radio. Black bread with cheese. The light that comes. The window. The silence. The story in this city has always been the same: back & forth […]

Almost nine years now since those first rumblings, all those evenings, you read, and what has changed, what really. That avant-garde so-called, was it really ever anything other than a way of wasting time? In some sense a way of legitimizing what otherwise led, we know all too well, only to one’s haunting the back […]

Without my having noticed Something Had changed Not that I could leave But could no longer stay Inside the small A glimpse, overheard Perfect my death word    

March begins – still Winter cold. Square empty & halflight all morning A man ambers into silence At the edge. Numb The geography of nowhere

My contribution to Anke Becker’s “Heimweh” project has at long last finally arrived..thank you for reading

That long winter turned Summer turned winter   chipped Light    empty hands