I saw a bride splendid in white garments I saw a woman with one hundred children The children plump and firm within her arms, But some fell down or strangers took and ate them
Which can be brushed out long and fine to lie across a pillow or bunched and scrunched into an angry knot of rain before it is undone, when long hanks of it hang
The sea lays big glass hands on the sand, spreading its fingers out as if new to the shore. It can’t quite believe in it. It wants to hold on before the glass breaks.