Never quite still
A rivulet, blinding,
thin, wrapped to asphalt ground around
Islands of green shoot
The branches tickle the
midday air
The dead just stare
my 12 o’clock shadow
points the way home
at the crossroads of
the permissible and the forbidden,the sacred and the profane
the outpost and the
empire
the animal and the
machine
chatter, grunt, click,
buss, flap
the flocks in the pen
and those on the hillside
in the hutch and in the
battery don’t know the difference
between the hum, the
rubber and the needles
sits a single flower,
quivering
red with a blue heart
not unique but the
first
a precedent in my day
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