Christine Fellows
what are years
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Punctual to one tenth of one second, most exact
I offer her this silent dedication, mother, my meridian
Ours, a seamless conversation, your dry wit and my words
Float inside more flies in amber than poetry, I'd guess
Without your eye they are meaningless
The senseless unarrangement of wild things
Just as they are, our ancestors
Elephants, hornbills, mice and my favourite, anteater
You suit me well...
The batter spits into his hand and claps
Exemplars of art
If I were to take whiskey
I'd take it straight