Hair is heaven’s water flowing eer… Often a woman drifts off down her…

is thought to be a confession, won… torture, but which our interrogato… hate to record—all those old code… the standard narrative of sandpape… throats, even its remorse, fall ig…

The only response to a child’s grave is to lie down before it and play dea…

The taller the monument, the more… Look, look, a graveyard has fancy… Historians agree: this is the pebb… Every billboard is theoretically a… Mouth: the word’s exit-wound.

But if they’d give us toys and twi… parents splurge on the average kid… in fact, stacks wrapped with our n… the tree: these sparkling allotmen… guaranteed a lack of—what?—family?…

Who whispers here is forgotten. Saliva’s emptiest fruit adorns the stones, words ripening your mouth to a spoilation

Like everyone I demand to be Defended unto the death of All who defend me, all the World’s people I command to Roundabout me shield me, to

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

If you are still alive when you re… close your eyes. I am under their lids, growing black.

–to S. The light lay in shreds across the… only your waking could make it who… resuming its costume of day, its r… which seems to overnight get ragge…

I examine my skin searching for the pore with EXIT

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

At your light side trees shy A kneeling enters them

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 ...