a circular belt
looping around till
the days melt,
into chirping crickets

and hooting owls.
And through the thickets
the coyote growls.
The pitter-patter

of the rain.
The chipmunks scatter.
And I strain,
in this position

with no spot of commission.
My pen is dripping wet.
My paper full
of epithet.

Running on dregs
as me.
Drinking red grapes
under the old oak tree.

Life is a painted blur,
of plotted events,
mislaid detours
and accidents.