I am a poet; I am not a mathematician. I wish I were, but I am not. You are proofing a theorem. And I pop in. Can I do something for you you say, not looking up. Hmm, I say, to the back of your head, not really and watch the ferocious pencil traipse across […]

his tenderness flows through me like ink on paper; everywhere i find poetry in its language

once upon a time (wo)men stare into space and dream * * it is like the space between us is time that, no longer travelling straight in a diminishing line, now runs parallel to us, like a loop of string, the distance a doubling accretion of thread rather than the interval between

our eyes tou ch acr oss sh el ves beyond words   inside literature

Two people in a suburb The night is the object of love Pretence and squalor in the basement Naked globe over an open book A cat prowls on the footpath Low lights roost in trees Eyes filled with distance The clock looks four ways I am tired of walking these streets She says, rising to […]

Pain made him whom he is; The heart breaks once, like china, and the whole life yields to it. It came from nowhere like thunder or third parties. For a city of unpredictabilities, her real map is a tangling of all our lifelines. The moment a feeling enters the body you are vulnerable, become political. […]

the notes for the poem are the real poem: guttering candle, postcards, the rain the mind behind the notes is the real poem the author is at the gallery passing from work to work like still scenes in a movie the story of the film is the real poem its narrative arc is changing the […]