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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

rain,
the magpie speaks
and rain it is!

evening:
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!