I came, through sea waves, misty-brained,  My love songs crumbling to shadows,  And I was halved to something  Less than human. How could I grow  Into something more than what I had become?  Impossible now, the diminishing returns  Of what was given me at birth.  Smaller than a baby now, more of a creature  Belonging to the forests, of stumps  And traps and blood, the day-moon  Hanging over me like a sad reminder.  I was lost, having become lost, and unable  To return to wher

A Skein of Black Water The moon appeared to float on a skein of black water and a wind sang a high pitch B, 246.94 Hertz. And something else – a distant police car? Or a muffled bell tolling the lost river Dene?

The North Is Rain strikes terraces stacked in brown brick   And wind blows through the underpass.     Two fat-breasted pigeons   Fly...

On the other side of the optic glass, Ishmael's albino whale of the sky Leprously blemished, ghastly white.

Coldly satanic is the phantom moon whose hollow shell is the alien body of a god who hatched and died too early.