The question these mornings of birdsong
I woke up this morning thinking/T.S. Eliot had no clue
A poem in draft form.
After Éluard and Cave.
With apologies to Walt Whitman.
A new attempt at a poem.
A Christmas Day poem. Unedited.
Ni siquiera la muerte
se desahce de este polvo.
What would have taken to break the silence?
Written on my notebook at the 'Sensational Butterflies' show, National History Museum, London , 25 May 2014.
What strikes us
is the stillness.
"Everybody Digs Bill Evans", a new poem. Of sorts.