I wear the season as a skin and know that I’m inhabited by myself and a growth, or some feeling of growth. I write poems for myself, read...

I thought I could see the same trees From my window. The window was an outlet and glassy, Where the cooing was a cuckoo was an owl....

My eyes sidle over each of the walls in the warm dark. Sitting against one and breathing slower than me is Harry. The edge of the plug...

So it was midday last Thursday, on the way to town – drizzling. It’s Britain, what do you expect? Had to wear that big black coat with...