I felt perfected along the rectangle By its ragged side Fences trees and mist dropping Some space for the flowers I set an image in my head where Bushes in their out of focus Made a green dearth about the door I wanted to do a book on Pages left in the heat or rain But my desire seemingly disappeared Picked up by a car in the middle of A pack of cigarettes This trip into the forest The trees trading with memory to Frame the various breaks The pleasures of small laws cut Behind the mower with my eyes Running the grass blades We don’t really get any older I can see what that means Copyright © 2016 Samuel Amadon. Used with permission of the author. |
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