I rifled through the drawers of death.
I took back all my letters.
Death she never wrote me back.
She let me hang here ever.
Burning but not consumed
A scholarly fall
The leaves of all I’ve read
stir as I walk, reproach
me with their dryness, beg
to be tramped
under into something good.
Tarkovsky
I do not like seeing
A little man fried in oil
limbs in motion
stilled by the heat
Contact
Haughty
Bugs unlike birds
do not flee my
innocent
port and shutter
Sunday
Mute observance
Woody’s
Utrecht Journal 