What I’d like to read right now, what I’m working my way towards in my own writing, what lingers like incense (happy Easter, by the way, to those who celebrate):
shores
hills of grass on and on without end and a puddle here or there reflecting a giant blue sky
diners, motels, petrol stations in the middle of the desert staffed by one person who will not meet your gaze
the mountains were there is a solitary hut above the treeline
constellations when they are considered by small groups of people on the dark face of the earth
ill-defined wrongness and wrongdoing and buttoned lips
islands and their specific, haunted geography
big fat lazy rivers of the kind Scotland is too small to possess
found lines of poetry in spam emails
witches and their fashions and self-forged legends
books which change on contact
forests as impossibly large, engulfing settings for stories (I need more of these)(especially ones which note the way the light shifts and falls, and birdsong, and cracking twigs)
old houses, naturally, with infinite-dimensions of basements and attics and pantries and dairies and outbuildings
little villages in the mesas were all the inhabitance practice a particular craft handed down from one generation to the next
dream logic that is not pure message
graveyards, like shores – with a little mist on them, and great depths