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Thought smears.

yesterday, yes –
in all my clothes,
old birch smoke

afternoon rain –
fingers green with ink
mumbling the blues

Local bus stop. Everyone in my old home town drives a car, except for me. I would have it no other way.

arms against talk –
the punch line cut short
by a drum fill

from the wall,
an off-key note
comes back to haunt

Apple leaves, as seen from the hammock. The first week of my vacation went by blindingly fast.

emerge from a dream
to an empty house –
the hum of rain

at the lake
the sound of children
living as stones

the magpie speaks
and rain it is!

calloused fingers fretting
birdsong only

my work finished
an aeroplane brush-stroke slowly dissolving

walker’s bliss –
the forest swallows
distant car-wails

in the evening sun
the guitar strings become
candles of their own

on the balcony
a spider sketching
the courtyard elm

through the pub window
sky in imitation
of a car, stalling

the light switch whips up
hours of coffee fog, half-night
wrapped in a day’s cloth

walking home
the park-heart
glad in golden dust

in the dimming evening
a pot of chili
awaits its reader

beer cans raised
the ruby of dusk
in the barn’s rubble

lost in poetry
I step on the toes of trees;
my apologies!