When I asked Robert Wynne to join me as co-editor of a new poetry anthology, his immediate response was When do we start? Only
Once a year, I take them from the bowl, and rinse them clean, using the corner of a cotton napkin to dry the Hungarian
What I saw first was an elephant, rising, and though the sight was glorious, it was not half so decadent as other feasts offered
we were bold on our skinny legs, boxing with the boys, spit dodging with the best of them, kicking up handstands on vibrating rail-lines,