SHINE BALLARD

quotidian iii-one

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

stepping. Chick-a-dee-dee–Screech—Ominous,

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.