After Sylvia Plath The bushes are laden, draw my blood with their thorns. To find sweetness or at least some nourishment, Find sweetness before
Like constellations spotted in a pond the turtle carries on its back 13 moons on outer basal grey. 28 days, in small scutes brightly
now it’s hot our stink mud sinking green our flybelly flick our wet plash wed to spring rattle the low places bulrush deep steep
for Richard Layzell How did the goat die? It stepped too high, too fast. Thunder threatened from the sea. It bleated once, twice as