Address

Ruskin

( ( ( 27 ruskin I hear the whistle blowing but I cannot see the train The wrong buildings are coming down to meet me An oily noise waving its petition in the face of what a future So my book becomes a road drifting casually toward a lake The road talks to the stonebreaker in a private language inaudible by carriage A hand transposes the work of the eye until it cannot tell which side is up Dear Rose, I think that I would like to be a weapon like a pillow in the hands of an angry girl A building in the shape of a cloud that takes the shape of a galleon shaped like a bow of hickory or witch hazel or the willow that weeps against this pillow-thought of you ...