Foot nearly falls upon what is as much
an oil stain as it is a skeleton.
A mourning dove sways, wiry as city
mowers never cut across the road.
A storm-soaked flag too crestfallen for flying,
a chorus of scolding greets every over
or not : i’ve seen no slithering. Foot nearly falls
upon what is as much an oil stain as it is
a skeleton. Circumambient, stereophonic.
The city mowers never cut across.
A squirrelish racket among the magnolia leaves,
a hidden hoot signals the Great Horned—an
attenuated timbre of tymbals.