Adam Stokell



Upon a Shot Star

I wish they wouldn’t bolt like that: the wallabies that also take tenuous place on the block. But soon as I’m out and wandering wide of the shack’s cleared margin, crackling twigs and dry leaves only blind feet would, I’ll …

Posted in 82: LAND | Tagged | Leave a comment

Daylong

Not even a day without! It isn’t good, now black poems pile in every gland. It isn’t all bad. This morning I leapt clean from the blocks, pushing up into lulled woodland. Low fog was with me like a tailwind. …

Posted in 57.0: CONFESSION | Tagged | Leave a comment

Heathward

Peeling back a wet blanket of bracken more or less dead on its feet, a small patch, one warily pulled head at a time; hoping to see the doused coastal heath, that still smokes underneath, reignite. Hot-pink flowering Heath’s installed, …

Posted in 49.0: OBSOLETE | Tagged | Leave a comment