Post-Mortem of a Fallow Field
I dreamt of home last night. Your eyes were green – a cut of lime against the tongue – they startled me like birds start at the sheep-herds bawling. You had warned of something mystic, pearl chowders, purple dusks – you had said:
Double Sorrow
Look, our careless sleep has laid the world to siege. Morning thrusts its tattered sails like white surrenders into this, our dream, our winter palace, while spores of mustard gas steal homeward from the breach so we might taste our cruelty with those towns strung out all night
