hardenbergia knows nothing of restraint or bulbs or beds asks why at every tendril a question mark on the hedge kennedia has no memory ...

here the evening air does not forget how much it rained last August I return middle-aged walk familiar streets unrecognised someone we...

in the kitchen of our growing up saffron seeped into white rosary beads sauterne blistered sweetness to steam we chopped fresh parsley wi...

the crisp crack, sometimes a pop, of dry wood the sliced tongue green stem cutting with one hand, discarding with the other you crept up...

Frenzy crashes over every south-facing part of me, grabbing my lobes and rushing into them, raking my hair as far as it will go. I am re...