The raft you made out of towels didn’t float, for fuck’s sakeit didn’t even keep us…
I.
Like some Sunday afternoon, my years emerge —
All the humiliations of having a body. Is it load-bearing or cosmetic. Not signing the paperwork isn’t an option. You can’t write while walking…
I slattern bramble and wood and moss and amber and sap and milk and buck every frond and arching stem.
Think more about your senses and less about your feelings. A website might be a newish kind of book. It’s a nice space in a warehouse-y way…
Across the violent waves of the break you’ll see a capsized dingy. With binoculars the turning boat will appear shuddering in the downward…
From a notebook, undated:
Accident, 1963: art’s not so abstract after all.
tell them thateven now
A dreamy excursion on the river Ouse in Yorkshire will be ruined by the discovery of a dead body. Not a very pretty one…
for Tran Dan
Over time