Union Station
Where greetings explode and unfold
poetry
Winter Window Flower
Into my room
Rain Builds
Rain falls above the hay
Eighteenth Century
Sober, it entered, drunk with being sober,
George Ernst
George Ernst went in for horses all his life.
At Morning, At Namur
I am bathed in green,
Eclogue Nine
These are skulls that were a waste of breath,
Venice
Rocking over green, the black
Mood
I never found soft clay to turn so brittle,
A Ballad of the Death of Thomas Pepys, Tailor
A sluggish man with naught / But his trade and lease, / And a curst imperfection / In his speech,
Pages
Current Issue: No. 301
