The worlds are breaking in my head Blown by the brainless wind That comes from afar Swollen with dusk and dust And hysterical rain The fading

In the waking night The forests have stopped growing The shells are listening The shadows in the pools turn grey The pearls dissolve in the

The face of the precipice is black with lovers; The sun above them is a bag of nails; the spring\'s First rivers hide among their hair. Goliath

1 white curtains of infinite fatigue dominating the starborn heritage of the colonies of St Francis white curtains of tortured

An image of my grandmother her head appearing upside-down upon a cloud the cloud transfixed on the steeple of a deserted railway-station far