Stewing in the green

You know, don’t you. You can tell. I sit in the greenery, but perceive only symbols. All of its inhabitants seem impatient, as if to chide me for this microscope of mine. I am strafed with ill-considered bullets, held down with malice, but find a friend in an unlikely place.

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alexa’s home

A pyjama morning,and I’m barefoot on the splintery deck.Creamy coffee smoke’s rising,and a gull’s keen scream beats up a warbler’s song.There’s a sun-gotten image of a fulsome treetrapped and cancelled between smoky panes.Inside, I speak to a machine, who answers tritelyin the accent of the day.

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