A review of Tom Lux's Selected Poems (Bloodaxe) in The Guardian a few days ago.

And a poem of my own in the Times Literary Supplement of January 9th:


       Degas’s Bather

The orchards of the internet have rooms

for my virtual museums, and portals

to fancies I suppress—Roman revels

enhanced with sound effects, like my neighbour

this noon in his condo, earthquake water

stacked prudently on his porch,

a redwood to shade our double windows. 


Sounds like he’s surfed a porno flick. Her yelps

ring out in waves like ripples a pebble

makes, plopped into water. And here’s the jug

she’ll sluice her back with in a second

or a century: longing’s embodiment

as I polish off my chicken breast, chased

with last night’s wine, my foraged plum.