in memory of George Stewart
It casually loiters in the fourth line
of April, pretending not to stalk me,
the expiry date on David's passport
and the start of a trade fair in Brussels.
It knows full well you chose your namesake's day
to die, as if you were somehow afraid
I might forget. As if I ever could.
from The Knives of Villalejo (Eyewear Publishing, 2017)
. When I started this occasional series of stocking-filler poems, I’d sort of decided that they would necessarily all be the kind I knocked together to per...