stone's throw.
lone crow, bent,
perched, on the back fence.
sometimes, i feel the warm
bent of misery,
washing, ocean's
leagues, untied, into
graceful plays, like
the hue shift of afternoons.
under clouds, feet shuffle
over n around n don't find
meaning out there in gutters
or supermarkets. it
is heavy but bearable.
                                                                                                           arcing over,
                                                                                            sky's cover, oblique,
                                                                                     hangs on the valleymist.
                                                                                 some days, feeling the soft
                                                                                                       hiss of static, i
                                                                                                          smile, out of
                                                                                            habit, or leaflitter, or
                                                                                               every vastness, like
                                                                          our echoes through space seem.
                                                                                     under canopy, feet rustle
                                                                              about, all muddied n finding
                                                       meaning don't matter, out here in hollows
                                                                                                     or grainfields. it
                                                                                       is dizzying yet bearable.