Each afternoon he walks me ragged,
paths dusty with catkins, fleshy
and sulphurous, a tapenade of grief.
It's the same old story:
towers and crooked fences,
a waiting boat, le pont des suicides.
Even the birds are dropping.
We begin where we end.
These trees with their blue leaves
have survived beyond imagining.
Beneath the Rime (Shearsman, 2009)
To buy the book in the UK, click here for Shearsman's online store.
To buy the book in the US, click here for the link to Amazon.com.