those
countryside colours
dug deep in the pantries of
longlost obsessions and falling pinecones
stowed between rifts in woodwork-framed floorboards,
leaving vague lessons for the sunday crowd who'd
finally groomed their hair and walked out,
sunglint balding projections soon crawl
under the drainpipe circle of light ancestors ago would have thought god,
with revelations through seven now
each night broadcasts photon showers,
leaking through drying eyelids, blaring and spinning,
a stranger sits home,
feels so alone,
hadn't been taught to deal with transmission,
recursing discourse in patterns
in static of two
one where life went fine, and the other where we went on,
keeping tact forever and feeding geese on sunday afternoons
as the sun
shone through chemical ceilings,
*we had
tiny
birds
in
our hair,
then.