I lay down in the empty street and… My feet against the gutter’s curb… The building above a bunch of gawk… Along its ledges urged me don’t, d…

Our love has chosen its appropriat… Which when viewed in the midst of… It didn’t choose seems almost insi… The gesture our love has chosen is… We both agree not that we have any…

Note: Tomlinson is not only a distinctive poet, but a visual artist of repute. His graphics grace the covers of many of his books. This Homage attempts to imitate his verse style, or ...

We brush the other, invisible moon… Its caves come out and carry us in…

(Nonasyllabics) In retrospect the tragic nature of sea is a taste wept too daily, too depleted by freedom’s rupture; the eyes have other secrets to see

If a path to the Gingerbread Hous… could be established by breaking c… off its edifice and sprinkling the… so as to find what lies behind us across the featureless fairytale

Speak like a singularity, a lack residing deep inside every lock, j… past the point keys can jab: again… make safe-ensure your door’s core… for reckless access to that pure c…

I examine my skin searching for the pore with EXIT

'My age, my beast!' - Osip Man… On the lips a taste of tolling we… The light drifts like dust over fa… We wear masks on our genitals You’ve heard of lighting cigarette…

The bouquet Bluebeard gave his first date reblooms Railroad trains drop off the bourgeois’ pointy head God’s hand descends into a glove held steady by the police At their reunion The Ne...

Why are all the survivors of the n… nude, as if their lifethread had d… rather than sewn them. Sans coat-f… we proceed it seems only to preced… birth to burial, are not yet here.

Always your face like a space (Destination: beautiful) ship Empties its mote of closeup trace Down screens that blink blank blip Somewhere between countdown

‘My age, my beast!’ - Osip Mandel… On the lips a taste of tolling we… The light drifts like dust over fa… We wear masks on our genitals You’ve heard of lighting cigarette…

The way the world is not Astonished at you It doesn’t blink a leaf When we step from the house Leads me to think

After your death, Naomi, your hair will escape to be… a round animal, nameless.