Isolated Adagios

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Our culture is a rhythm of seconds heard by no year.

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How else are two people supposed to meet and end up on someone else's breath?

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Your need is a deep fungus need. Wayward and contrived as snow.


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The prosperous man re-purposes vulgar error for a froth. The galley-slave for a door to Mercury and no one.

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Hunger is a condition of the eye. It begins with the armor and bridle of delayed dispatch. (Contented gods.)

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Sir Richard Blackmore was voluminous. Thomas Creech was no Horace. John Qgleby no Virgil. John Oldham no Pindar. Aphra Behn a hiccup. Yet Abraham Cowley was born to human fancy. Go figure.


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In a time of skin, wear the wind.
In a time of wind, wear nothing.


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Our culture is the French translation of a Russian poet. Jagged pink of the wood. Fishing boy of the forest.