Photo by Matthew Fisher.
Photo by Matthew Fisher.

My old enemy,
Grown his thick bushy red beard
In the five years since.

String of white tinsel,
Strung between two thin branches
Bowing to the breeze

Her naked bottom
Visible in a white flash
Gone to thunder now.

Electric fan blast
Cave-cold in my left armpit
DVD skipping.

I watch the traffic
Or, did, until tall condos
Replaced the yoga barn

How strange, to have come
this far only to end as
three lines on smooth stone

Spicy paperback
Askew on dusty floorboards,
Good parts long torn out

Limbless beauty, wins
the pageant and tiara
orange rose in her hair.

One old man, one chair
Crackers thrown to five fleet crows,
Down from the streetlamp.

Icy breeze floats, through
the stilled fan in the window,
down to brown whiskers

My mouth, tensed or slack,
Shaping the breezes through me
Larger or smaller

A tiny white feather
From no nearby bird, blown in
through a bus window

Street maestro, wheedling
Can’t-lose dope deal, easy cash,
A 5 for 40?

My bladder is full,
My ears suffused with Lester,
Teeth, clenched; soul, somewhere…

Rail track, opposite,
As immobile on its side
As I am on mine.

Cinnamon-swirl sky,
cloud-grey spiraled inside blue,
Lights on in the tower

Telephone pole tar, melting
down at the base, sticky bright
like the back of my neck.

Silhouette, stalking
downwind from dozing sentry
hands clutching cabbage.

Outrage at the world
Swallowed, finally, thinking:
Don’t waste a good walk.

“Some days are diamonds,
some days are stones”–and I stole
this from the busman.

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