To lie on a beach after …
James K. Baxter
As I come down the hill from Toro Poutini’s house …
The wish to climb a ladder to the loft …
About twilight we came to the whitewashed pub …
The small grey cloudy louse that nests in my beard …
One writes telling me I am her guiding light …
Three dark buds for the Trinity …
There was a message. I have forgotten it. …
These unshaped islands, on the sawyer’s bench, …
Summer brings out the girls in their green dresses …
Hard, heavy, slow, dark, …
I advise rest; the farmhouse …
Often in summer, on a tarred bridge plank standing, …