The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down. - Wallace Stevens

The clouds preceded us. There was a muddy centre before we breathed. There was a myth before the myth began, Venerable and articulate and complete. From this the poem springs: that we live in a place That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves And hard it is in spite of blazoned days.

the lion sleeps in the sun.
its nose on its paws.
it can kill a man.

My house has changed a little in the sun. The fragrance of the magnolias come close, False flick, false form, but falseness close to kin.