poem

Sit down among the boxes and write a poem, he told me; obedient, I'm writing. Moving house, he said, is such an ordinary thing to do—a regular activity, especially for you—no obligation to unpack at once or be too dutiful. Find a vacant corner and there among half-empty cartons spilling...

Moving Sit down among the boxes and write a poem, he told me; obedient, I'm writing. Moving house, he said, is such an ordinary thing to do—a regular activity, especially for you—no obligation to unpack at once or be too dutiful. Find a vacant corner and there among half-empty cartons spilling...

Every reader loves the way he tells off the sun, shouting busy old fool into the English skies even though they were likely cloudy on that seventeenth-century morning. And it’s a pleasure to spend this sunny day pacing the carpet and repeating the words, feeling the syllables lock into rows...