Poets

Things I've never understood, not the dynamo, not hate, not the skill of a pinch that was good. Or Christ - but for that it's too late.

In between two Brabantine hills history is ground down to dirt. No stone, no clod but has a sense, but it has hart a hand, a heart.

Navel of God's earth. From our seat we hear sparrow hawks descend and drink. The sound's like metals that clink and melt in an azure heat.