Whenever I saw
your soul
in the white snow:
legs
spread for love
The beggarly angel
of the fir tree
picks by handfuls
our shadows
no my God
kind of scared
The sun is rising
with the dullness
of Medusa’s
chopped off head
The last series of Paradise
is being run on the telly
The exile
with blood
more skittish
than the last candle
in the blind yolk
of the dark
2000
***