Andrew James Murray Poems

We writhe
with a rage to know
the unknowable,
...

The bleak, blushes of dusk. A Highland wind
licks at a heart, wrapped in leaves.
Buried beneath a pine cone, needles.
...

It is not
the way
the reeds
move in
...

Hanging on the telephone
in a hazy funk.
Ice in a glass.
The words
...

The wind in hollows unfrequented,
gathering the detritus
among bare-branched forms.
A copse; a corpse,
...