Ongoing, this is ongoing.
The composite process, the sedimentary strengthening, the rejection hauled through at the last hour.
And while rites and labours are dawned upon, it is the conditioning that is at the heart.
The city functions upon itself, its roads are drawn by architects, in loops.
Shuddered home in great pillows of sleet, these are only words, words is all they are.
You write them too, I am without compassion.
Awkwardly inverse, the jar at the end of the line, the flow in the centre. Sea walls, heather meadows, chalk inlet, limestone gorge, lighthouse, bricked terrace.
I find our interaction an irritant. Go.
Games of detection, selection and bereavement, concealment and defection. Point at the one most valuable, indicate the book that is most like you.
Because, above and below, I talk of poems and nothing else. I am no good.