verse 1

Tampanensis flushes on the bookshelf,
Sadly overlooked by Nietzsche. I'm
Waiting for the rocks to throw new
Colour at me. And meanwhile, holy
Sage is growing through the letter box,
Quickening through the interstices of
The Royal Mail; auld Geordie, the
Postman, has no idea of the weight
He carries. Hojas de la Pastora.
I dreamt it all. I dreamt it all beneath
The stars of the frozen Maghrib.