"Qibla"

with meek alabaster he begins

clang dormant mustard

despair in the morning of theocracy
so called drug
anthology and dead hand
spray thrown up only
edge mustered
toe hold and bitter return

from the shadows a warning whisper
in this spiralling but immaculate cube
suddenly mistrustful of the soap
talking squid frontier
this mimics


"It's pleasant to have an art that can never make money or much sensation; then in dry times it hardly seems to exist." --Robert Lowell, op cit