They are listening in the wires,
in the walls, under the eaves
in the wings of house martins,
in the ears of old women,
...
one thing then another
one story then another conversation
always interrupted by another conversation
...
They spent my life plotting against me.
With nothing to do but cultivate themselves,
but to be there, aligning their shadows,
they were planning to undo me,
...
At evening watches the duck
slow feeding the waterline.
Praises the duck. Such a fine
...
After Max Ernst's 'Europe after the Rain'
In the dark
each sits alone
...
there’s only ever one argument: his,
bawling out whoever punctuates
the brief intervals his cussing
| interrupts, something unheard, reason perhaps.
...
I tell a wanderer's tale, the same
I began long ago, a boy in a barn,
I am always lost in it. THe place
is always strange to me. In my pocket
...
Sure today it could come in a fast plane
named perhaps for the pilot's mother,
the city ends in a smear in the road
and that in a child's shoe. No one
...