Outskirts Press, INC.

This book is dedicated to my Scottish God, Odin.
Coming in thin, the man upon the hill, walking away from a mill
with what’s left, George, still. Soaked in dew, wearing boiled
wool, on the other side of being a bull, a dirk strapped to his
thigh, keeping dry, staring at a church, burnt.
“Sitting, waiting, wishing,” was he waiting for me maintaining all
that I see? Just waiting for me to realize I was he, also, in ruins.
“I am too stone to ruin.”
“We are a pair, you see, a rune.”
A wall bogged down, alone, out in the open on a sloping
grassy meadow with no roof or corner bracing, out of place
unable to move from our loam. We buried deep. What will buffer
thee?