Grillsmoke, childpipe, pulled seconds
Blue-white flags punish wind poles,
Somewhere a door bangs shut
There is distance but only just

You may be punished to see a ghost
Crossing a garden of hard borders
Or a hand on an unknown task
Pulling at greenstuff or wild roots

Bees hum like steady diesels,
Someone laughs with falsehood
This is what  we want to own
Under an expected sky.