T H E   B E D S P R E A D  O F  N A T U R A L  H I S T O R Y
a bees’ lament, SUMMER My mouth is full of the honest primrose night With a slowing clock delicate and accomplished cross pollinating AUTUMN I imagine ticking soft shadows of air with coarse black wings While grass persists to remain awake for an hour WINTER I did not imagine this slow frost stone sustaining a secret Strategic terrain the crinkled spark My thoughts are walking round the exhausted table SPRING Curvature of drunken bees on the landscape floor Time lays in a short line my only familiar scent is that of a flowering curtain
H O M E P A I N T I N G I N S T A L L A T I O N T H E A T R E P O E T R Y D R A W I N G C O N T A C T A B O U T C V