Compost is always a matter of sorrow, the gardener said, shaking his head over the undigested melon peels which the worms refused to devour. The wrong temperature, the wrong humidity, and it turns into a mess of fermentation that bears no wine, no matter how much one may whine about it. Gardening is an art, after all, as much as it is an exercise in mud, and really millipedes are not 'bugs' but the most ancient form of crustacean, an older form than anything else we are likely to encounter. There is a moral in this story somewhere, but, alas, you will not find it.

LIKE MANY I HAVE KNOWN

She says: An accident is hard.

Desires flesh beyond, whilst making the impossible, say dahlias out of season, apart from perfumed philosophy, a box of isolations, tiny-centred, hidden among everything and straight between natures…

Sorry! Wrong story -

Conjugations of trepidation, exceeding configuration, a serious tissue, without end, the desired shape of the word we lie being links and ticks; and tics of vision; vocab breeding, moons under wheels Love tends.

Bliss may end itself, suicidal, pink to cold blue, self to self; excellence the tree, broken; sight out of order; expression upon the journalistic page for hauling the reflection, would you? to say like many, to say: Like many I have known