(Droplet) spume.

The word, defining, muzzles; the drawn lineOusts mistier peers and thrives, murderous,In establishments which imagined lines Can only haunt.  Sturdy as potatoes,Stones, without conscience, word and line endure,Given an inch.  Not that they’re gross (although Afterthought often would have them alterTo delicacy, to poise) but that theyShortchange me continuously:  whether More or other, they still dissatisfy.Unpoemed, unpictured, the

on Van Gogh

Father scuffled with the taste of saltpetre still sticking unstintingly to his tongue, and the lustre of a candle which, already nearly drowned by its own wax, sobbed intermittently, enervating his eyes. Here, an horizon. There, an horizon; tessellating the sides of a glass as the canary-green flood subsided, in altisonant tongues of water slapping

(Droplet) a basket of sun, a wicker of fear.

The beach of my choosing was Rocha, which was besprent with caverns, alcoves and grottos, some due to decades of construction atop the promontories inevitably causing fall-ins, others were formations of erosion that, so careful was the fashion of their forms, one would be tempted to believe that the sea sculpted them in its own

(Droplet) languorous pools

Monte Alerta (Monsaraz), at youngest night, a meticulously woven veil of darkness was cast upon those arid hills; Occupancy was scarce, and I’d taken a chance to flee my parents as they engaged in a fruitful political quarrel with our nearest tenants. I knew not the ways of the small garden, but I knew it

(Droplet) – poetry in memory

The voices of the world becoming quieter and fewer. Kafka, October 21 of 1917 – “In Sunshine”, The Third Octavo Notebook. Every action of scrawling begins with fossicking old dusts in search of eventful shapes, harnessing memory as a mass of particles brought alight; cold fountains dance, pellucid, in a constellation of footfalls, and a