Swifts do not sing: what they do well is sleep on the wing, moving always higher and higher in their almost entirely

All afternoon the shadows have bee… A city of their own within the str… Carefully correcting the perspecti… With dark diagonals, and paring ba… Sidewalks into catwalks, strips of…

I have climbed blind the way down… (How faint the phosphorescence of… On nights when not a light showed… And nothing marked the line of sky… Only the beating of the heart defi…

They say it is waiting for more, t… Shrunk up to the shadow-line of wa… In an arctic smouldering, an uncle… And will not go until the frost re… Sharpening the stars, and the fres…

A capuchin—long acquaintance with… Has left him taciturn—stands guard At gate and stairhead. Silent, he… The coin we drop into his dish, an… Withdraws to contemplation—though…

Trees in this landscape signal the presence of a river. A side road leads us on— parched grass, a rock horizon— and winds us towards

These days are best when one goes… The house a reservoir of quiet cha… The creak of furniture, the window… Brushed by the half-rhymes of acti… That do not quite declare what thi…

Three jets are streaking west: Trails are beginning to fray alrea… The third, the last set out, Climbs parallel a March sky Paying out a ruled white line:

Too little has been said of the door, its one face turned to the night’s downpour and its other

Eyeing the grass for mushrooms, yo… A stone or stain, a dandelion puff Deceive your eyes—their colour is… To plump the image out to mushroom… And lead you through illusion to a…