that an hour in the forest won’t fix.
nothing right in you that an hour of poetry won’t wrong.
Rehearsing and repeating lines – the ones that stick, the ones that don’t
she could have been called Alice
if one year is paper
drunk and disappointed, your dad asked me – what made me think that I could father this child
She stole my every rock and roll, and we keep stealing and stealing and stealing. You want to come down. Apparently, Thursday 17 May is the night to come. That’s what I hear on the street.