when will the joyous red sun
show its colours
to me the poor wretch
in the grey?
here and I thought
that I’d get away
when the whole world is wet
wet wet wet
Pressing forward, the dense branches collect overhead. They blot the sun, and for a moment, you miss it, until the scent of wet rot chokes and controls you, and you realize you’re home.
what could be a greater contradiction
the first of December and he’s in his Christmas sweater
yesterday, rain, today, strong sun
tomorrow, who can say, save those who stay informed
on running loops with tiny changes
plusses minused, damaged brainses
who’s to choose the loose exchanges?
Sandles, painted toenails
a stand at the edge of the beach selling sodas and popsicles
off-brand but sugar-saturated all the same
a pack of shredded gum with flavour particles “guaranteed” to last “all day”
a taste like rosehips and the texture of chalk dust
moisture in the throat, though
as the sun reaches into the lake