A Pharaoh's Profile, A Krishna's Grace, Tail

Let Them Not Make Me A Stone And Let Them Not Spill Me, Otherwise Kill Me.

The Sunlight On The Garden Hardens And Grows Cold, We Cannot Cage The Minute Within Its Nets Of Gold

Time Was Away And Somewhere Else, There Were Two Glasses And Two Chairs And Two People With One Pulse.

There Seeps From Heavily Jowled Or Hawk-like Foreign Faces The Guttural Sorrow Of The Refugees.

I Was The Rector's Son, Born To The Anglican Order, Banned For Ever From The Candles Of The Irish Poor; The Chichesters Knelt In Marble At The End Of A Transept With Ruffs About Their Necks, Their Portion Sure.