Thread: as you sew using the needle, its thread gets shorter.
Dew: grass that is heavy with morning dew bends over.
Tinnitus: when sleep rubs against thought the head buzzes.
Leaf: when a leaf flies away, it never comes back.
Clock: a clock tells the time although it has never been to school.
Wheel: the wheels never catch up although they keep chasing each other.
Food: when you eat you never miss your mouth even in the dark.
Horse: the black horse was consuming a version of itself, the green horse.
Bird: birds were the pipes through which this music was conveyed.
Willow: a willow tries on a new dress once a year.
Grave: nothing is as long as the grave, even though you could leap over it.
Words: even after we hook them into sentences, some fall away.
Self: my bones are covered in ghost.


History a gradual erasure of anything that does not make sense
we are angels of history faces pointed into the rear-view mirror
sky: puzzling remains of a history too big to see
rain is the discourse of history
history is a novel that does not have a last page
nothing more passive than history
answer the history according to its process
in the forest a tree’s sense of history is persuasive
the world is a sponge for history
outside history there are no moments
history is a secret device for inhabiting clouds
ah sunflowers, weary of history
under pressure of history the stones band together
freedom: the length of the rope that connects us to the end of history


No road is as long as a dream or as short as a memory
news has a concession-stand in the pavilion of dreams
the reason we don’t remember most dreams is most are untranslatable
meaning is just the surface of the dream
the medium of the dream is time
we recount dreams in the present because we can’t catch them
raise up each dream against capital
we are dreamed by the edge of thought
sometimes I can dream up to about one star in Halliwell
a closed book recounts the dream of a windblown tree
we have to pay for dream-crimes in daylight
when I cycle to work everything else follows as a recurrent dream
when each thought has passed a brain the frightening dreams resume
flawed lives are perfected in dreams but perfect lives are subject to flaw
poetry forms the kind of pattern historians dream about
how come these dreams hold in place
we accrue through life a charge of dream
within the context of the dream I am pleased with this thought


is a London-based poet, his last book was Capital  (Salt, 2006), and before that,  A Spy in the House of Years (Leviathan, 2001).
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