poetry

a plan

Coffee in the quiet warmth of morning. Birdsong ‘neath a cloud’s tilted anvil, and the way they paint their paths to a landing. Soft intrusions of fly feet and the clack of a late beetle. The imprisoned cat, with his round lamps and cobra sway. Later, I will buy boxes of band-aids.

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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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Packing my bags

An apprehensionof not knowing the next move An assumed wordleft outthat should have been there The world goes cartoonish Walk with mefor I may not know the way Talk with mefor I know not what to say Do not trust meanymorefor I am poor and I watch a different show

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Night shift

This is wee, the hour. I play coy with sleep, thinking that if I ignore it and feign that I am fighting it, it will engulf me out of spite. But no. Its navigator plies me with pages from afternoon fades, jukes in studied loops. Sheep have gone out of style, I think.

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