"synchronous" poems
A man is like a flower
Starts with a bud
Blossoms into its nature
Natural ecstasy and perfection
In time it wears out too
Finally falls off the tree
A natural process
A natural phenomenon
Naturally the man
See as a flower
All the nature of being
To the base is the same
The intelligence the man puts into saying
That he is only the creature of importance
And everything in the world are the resource
Resource to be consumed by himself
Is the false flag he is raising
And is in the denial of the very nature
Anything which is resonant
And synchronous to the nature
Has the time in nature to the eternity
Whereas if not
In accordance to the nature
Sooner or later
On the verse of decay
On the verse of extinction
I see the human race is in the path of extinction
As civilization denying nature rather than glorifying
Human beings are far from the true essence
And are not synchronizing in the heart
Of the very nature
The so called intelligence
is what humans praise and glorifying
A lot full of ****
And it is a shame
We see the population of human species
To rise and rise
So may presume the statement
I just stated to be false
But seeing the thought processes
And so called intelligence
Is setting the human species
To a sense of decay
The step to the human race to demolish its own race
Is a unjustified intelligence in itself
The truth and laws of nature
Being in shade
Humans incorporating thoughts
As a tool of destruction
Rather than construction
In the field of criticism rather than motivation
In the field of extinction rather than sustainability
In the field of destruction rather than collaboration
And effort in maintaining the continuity
Of equilibrium and resonance with the nature
On the contrary
Making critics and complain about the others
Not realizing all are the part of the whole
Is creating a challenge to the nature
Going off beat with the nature.
We shall know
Anything not synchronous
And not resonant to the nature
Nature wipes out sooner or later
We cannot accept the very fact it is true
Even seeing our own life
As a child
The bud to the flower
The youth
The perfection in being and entire existence
The new ideas and new world
The fruit of generation brings about
The generation to come
To fertilize the seeds of the existence
The old age
To be renewed thoughts
Nature wipes out as per the plan
of its own
Accept it as a reality
As it is the truth
The sharpness of flower
Remembered as the youthfulness of flower
The bud is treated emotionally
With care as it is to be the perfection
In the time to come
The flower to be wiped out is respected
As it was once a perfection
Once roared the magnificence of itself
Upon this very world
The being-wiped flower doesn’t ask
For its claim in the now world
And indulge the new with its now state
But appreciate the perfection once it had
Make believe the youthful flower to blossom
And accept its own existence in the present.
Every species and beings
Are in the nature of being
We are no different from the other species
We are no superior and at the same time no inferior
To the other species
And not the other species to us humans
Everybody and everything
Is the part of the whole
The whole is the nature itself.
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
Between the sheets, in perfect peace,
The back and forth is synchronous.
The movements slow but never cease,
Then rise with violence amorous.
Between the sheets, yet closer still,
The lust for love becomes sublime,
One slides in to the other’s fill
The coming moments beyond time.
Between the sheets, the eyes roll back,
The light caress has now dug in,
Moans interrupted by a smack
Of rhythmic impact skin in skin.
Between the sheets, in unison,
The lovers’ gush of spirit meets,
Their finished glow beams like the sun.
They lie alone—where are the sheets?
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 10:07 PM UTC
I
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark.
The blue-green glow of dashboard gauges, the biting scent
of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Insects slapping the windshield, incipient rain.
Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.
II
Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms
I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement
ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor on MLK Boulevard.
The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence
inscribed on my back also confirms this.
III
I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair,
fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears,
twisting behind tent ***** with a one-armed
contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.
IV
I derailed in a dive bar.
V
I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights,
where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic
signals kept perfect time. I picked through trash bins.
I paid for love with drugstore wine.
VI
I closed my eyes on a mountain road.
The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.
VII
I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed
by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew
back the curtains and lost myself
in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps,
the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes.
I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.
VIII
The moon over my shoulder
tightened into focus like a spotlight.
One night the barking dogs undid me.
I caved in to the candor of a naked mattress.
I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell,
clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.
IX
I coveted the house keys of strangers.
X
I opened and closed many doors.
I sang into the mouths of storm drains.
I stepped out of many rooms only
to find myself in the room I just left.
Despite all my leaving, I remained.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
One forgets that they are not an ocean.
That they cannot break against the rocks
and crash violently into the shore.
We forget we are but cells,
fused together by the straining of our voices,
and the laughter in the sunshine.
We are not divided as oceans are,
separated by a mass of land, disconnected
as the Pacific
and the Dead Sea.
We are joined by the lyrics of a classic ballad
and the motions in healing dance.
Our bodies are not liquid,
synchronous with the moon,
the ebb and flow of our rising and falling chests.
We forget that the stitching in our skin has healed over,
clinging to the soft waters of the night-time tides.
Sable skies threaten the collapse
of our feeble house of sticks
climbing to the roof
shaking our fists to whatever slumbers
in the heavens,
begging to be as a stone
when the tropical storms
blow us down
and the ocean drags us by the hair
back to the fussing horizon.
One cannot drift through the human condition,
desire and impulse,
the life-long battle
to feel not as an expanse of water
but as a sturdy reminder
of atoms to cells to organelles,
as a mark on the spotted skies,
a part in the sea where we cross over into
the realm of existing
and feeling,
to become what we are
both in physical form
and in spirit.
We are flesh and we are soulful.
We are real and deserve to stand
feet planted
in the mud
and let the hurricanes wash us over.
We deserve to feel whole
and wanted.
Craved and forgiven.
We deserve to feel real.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
I precipitates
as he and as she
makes love
to create
echo of a prayer
a synchronous shell
led by desire
one body is I
preserved eternally
outside space time
you can get there from your own light only
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
The flags interweave in a synchronous pace.
A pattern is formed and dissolves into space.
Kaleidoscope movement and the swish of a sabre.
What flows like dance is a pain and hard labor.
Glitter and make-up fluff and curls for the show.
But there's nothing soft about the rifles they throw.
The best part of the guard is not seen by the eye.
It's teamwork and sharing and daring to try.
When the show's over and the props put away.
There's always more practice and some time to play.
So just when you think the guard is all done.
Somewhere in a gym, they're still having fun.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 9:09 PM UTC
Your body
Is my pilgrimage
Of worship
A place
Where my hands reach to
Offer absolutions
I use my silvery tongue
To get you around the bend
And tell you that your flesh
Blesses mine, with a stain
That’s more than just skin deep
So I press my heart against yours
Waiting for the two drums
To beat as one
I press my mouth against yours
And eat the words
That died upon your lips
My mouth traces
Every inch of your skin and bones
Until my hunger is satiated
A sliver of the midnight moon
Bathes us while we
Tangle ourselves deeper into one another
Every heavy breath, a sonnet
Every bite, an ode
Every moan, those three tired words
The air is heavy
With the scent of old perfume
While our two bodies talk
The burden on my hands, absolves
The stars in the sky, dissolves
And the argument our bodies have, resolves
As we bloom synchronously
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
Here we are again, in the deathmask of the city spinning.
The circumcised sea with its crocodiles and scars.
Never is the onrush of blood so violent the falsehoods
of the sky that drip neon on our heads
from desiccated clouds so true
This is the wild:
To the clusterfucked and cloistered swimming
in their bowls of soup and the scuttled
shells synchronous in their bass pulse beeping
to the blackhats who don’t believe
their messiah will ever come because they hear
the trump of doom every second of every day
yet they still stomp in their flatbeds for joy
and the prismatic dead who drag themselves from
their gurneys to march through the alleys
like tuskless elephants shoving their fingers
into the sun’s fumarole determined
to disintegrate into a mist of Krylon and copper
where we carry our concrete world slung
over our shoulders and the ravenous
moon in its ellipse above beached night heaving,
eyes curling in their sockets like gunsmoke smoldering
hearts humming like taut snares beheaded fish
in front of us, beheaded bodies behind us
I drag mine along by the hair.
To the children and the panhandlers who greet
the lion like hello kitty
and the skittish magnetic few in their
lightning-spaded furrows
on the ecliptic chained but leaping ever farther
and higher like the wrecking ***** pendulum
and all the naked lost milling among the mummified
tenements, waving Geiger counters before them
as they wander the sweaty street holding their heads
high as they grind flesh against flesh
pulverizing themselves into rubble
measuring the toll of time by destruction
drinking in mercury and hard water and
shrapnel and gamma and fire and gold
to them I say:
turn your hourglass on its side turn
your hourglasses on their sides
then acknowledge me so I can die in peace.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 4:35 PM UTC
Now blissfully engaged, in this most intimate act,
Our bodies do frolic in the playground of our loving boudoir.
I have committed to sightless memory, every curve of your beautiful form,
And my hands slowly recall your soft geography.
Your deep coos and murmurs stir my primal senses,
To a heavenly plane, elevated, as I extend lingual kisses to the center of your soul.
Your impassioned and skillful ministrations upon my ardor, I can't catch my breath;
I read the emotion and devotion in your eyes as they look up deep into mine.
Me aloft of you in slight embrace, I deliberately yet slowly ingress your warmth,
You hold me still, savoring this space, before now riding this ocean's waves, ebbs and tides.
Perhaps due to the intermittent pressure of our coupling upon your abdomen,
You give way to an audible flatulent moment, we laugh uncontrollably in each others' arms.
Our noses and our cachinnation stem the tide of this ill-timed olfactory assault,
The blush in your cheeks from embarrassment only makes me hold you closer, tighter.
In synchronous ecstasy, we continue our **** horizontal dance to joyful satiated fruition,
Your head lies resting upon my chest, as we hold hands over my heart.
Despite what smells should ever emanate from either of us on any occasion, any instance,
I want you always to know;
I love you for the life of me,
I'll love you 'til the stinky end of us both.
-----ChawzzyScript
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
I watched some crows this very eve,
Play upon a blustery, early November breeze.
Wave upon wave of those corvid beasts,
Now going west, now going east.
Now rising up, now darting down,
Now racing east,
Now tacking west.
No sailor on the seven seas
Can tack so well as one of these.
Now up, now down
Now left, then down.
One flies north
Another south, then darts east.
Yet flock drifts by despite these feats.
Another joins in synchronous dance
Then up, then down, then back again
Waving together till parting perchance.
Then each alone, up,
Then down, then back again.
Some stall for several ***** and blows,
Remaining still to trees below,
Then a feather's twitch
Banks into the wind
And soar, ...... soar, ..... soar,
Soar away.
Down a slope only birds can know
Racing faster than the wind
Above the trees below.
*It seems so wasteful, this fighting of the wind,
Futile and vain as a skein does not.
It's not hunting, I think, nor ***
Except perhaps for showing off.
But I suspect play at play.
Jonathon Seagull's desire, it seems
Infects these playful playing memes.
Perhaps I see play where there is no play,
Projecting wishes onto senses.
But corvids do play, it seems.
Do you too so seem?
Perhaps they even dream.*
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
Aligning the musculoskeletal system and channeling multidimensional energy through increasing psychological flexibility and developing emotional resiliency
Quantum leap in healing power and physical capabilities delightfully providing mental tranquility and healthy neural activity
Serenades of a dreamer; universal synchronous receiver, transmitter of vitality through awakening hidden capacity in human anatomy
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
Frightful abilities were pressured into
responses as the computer children
failed at hitherto reliable performance.
This was a description of the synchronous
effect brought into the shudder with a
catch in the breath of the mother,
and written by frenetic action that
destroyed the logical sequence of requests
presented by the mouse and the typing keys.
As directed through an esoteric process of
recovery, the minds of the device reoriented,
again attaining the ability to perform simple
and repetitive tasks as obliged by designated
prompts. There was no certainty this was not
related to the telephone connection which
picked thinking out of the air like a television
receiving a network broadcast. In the same
way, the exhaust pipe rambled as the engine
of the truck idled too rapidly and, then,
stalled. Everything was restarted. The vehicle
operated right away. The computer bumbled
along flashing through scenes and blank screens,
the curser pulsing like a heart beat in the upper
corner. This had to be worn like a sign of
concentration, meaning that the (citizen, computer)
was being observed, and the sensitive response
would be, literally, automatic, but sometimes
the potentiometer brought, to sight, a gesture
of communication. It was cute that such clever
trinkets were hiding down in there until the
spirit tapped the muscles of the shoulder blade.
It became apparent this relation depended upon
keys found in ancient aliens such as arcades and
magic books. A tiny soul was stored in a pocket,
in the telephone; it reached out with its vibration
and launched into the world to grab news with
its operating, search engines. It had eyes and
could see in the dark. So, the age was over in
which it could be expected that photographs were
the result of special manners and the courageous
offer of friendly snapshots. As torches confused
ferocious animals, the excuse depended upon dark
difficulties in the chemical room. In the garden,
the televised betrayal generated a crossfire of live
video, and, thus, fools were unlucky. Energy and
conflict had been misguided. New, public devotion
protected the evolution of tableware or discrete
implements that chimed to be taken into other rooms.
Discourse was enabled and following discursion,
long, private moments carried visitors away.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
I pick this Earthly slide into Summertime, this season to begin, propels forward in all sense of Time, history retrograde, etched in Stone for Centuries, Coded in DNA, programed Circadian bodies, impressions applied geometric thickly glazed coat, generously slathered across my Retinal Screen.
Setup complete for me, attuned to Solar frequencies, aligned to cohesive Cosmic driving motion spiraling Syncopation with all partaking rotational bodies, all timers set to synchronous, all ties to everything celebrating their teamwork well done.
Activity accelerates, as does the heavy heat, both inseparable, together climbing ****** into sunburnt sweat, steaming, sizzling Sunday barbecue to reflect the Flesh boiling together in sympathetic Celebration of our Seasoned Sun.
Longer days accommodate for memories and fun, commemorate the Force of Season, into swing, will soon be swung, centripetal to glaze a different gaze lathered across my retinal screen, reverberate through Atmosphere, redistribute composition, smooth bottlenecking, flowing out yet emptying to take fill of what flows in.
No change of Season, nor change of Heart, no redirection ever knows emptiness, no moment leaves a Void unfulfilled.
No moment when the smooth Transition stutters to a Stop. The sync is in the constant movement bringing balance in equilibrium by shifting tides, Spinning Stars locking in, programmed by Primal Cause, the Synchronicity in Everything, so Summertime comes, this Time in which we rejoice, knowing it's all been planned, beautifully executed by mechanics of Nature.
Trust in understanding a Power much Greater is in Control, we are here simply for the Experience.
...Not to much more, just in attending to the Transitions of Ourselves.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
The Unfocused luminosity within my mind
is so bright that it often times blinds my eyes from the inside,
Desperate to concentrate and focus it into two beams
that shine on a fate that’s known but unseen,
at least outside of my dreams,
It backfires and converts into an inaudible scream that in turn internally deafens me.
Nevertheless in your company, it seems that you can feel this shriek’s muffled vibrations
and despite the two dulled senses you the give remaining four the most overwhelming awakening sensation.
Your exquisite essence immediately arouses my olfactory causing my heart to beat rapidly, communicating with yours through its protective cage,
in a Morse code like language that predates drawings in caves,
our bodies ripple in synchronous waves,
the taste of your lips and sweetness of your skin can sustain me for days.
My third eye attempts to analyze your magnificence but it’s almost impossible to gauge,
I mumble **** baby, thinking about how I want to get engaged and..
you whisper in my ear telling me I feel “amazing”
and I think to myself” **** right I do”,
forgetting that you’re describing how I feel to you,
Then It hits me, that now I can hear, as you whisper in my other ear so soft and clear
“baby look at me”
then I open my “real eyes”
and your beauty hits me like sunrise,
The internal light that clouded my view,
from my eyes, reflects off of you and illuminates the room,
My mental muse,
You can clear my view when I focus on you
which is the cause and cure for my blues.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:49 PM UTC
Heart is connected with the universal energy
Head is logical
Heart goes with synchronous vibrations
Head will analyse everything
LOVE is Lactation of Vitall energy
When focussed it can mean "I love u"
So dil tho pagal hai
when two hearts interact in LOVE
the Spiritual Energy Xchange happen
Dil tho pagal hai
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
Do you recognize me?
I remember YOU.
No, we will not SEE each other after death;
we will BE each other after death,
as we also were before life.
You will realize that I am you and you are me;
we are everyone and everything, even now.
We are synchronous... simultaneous... endless...
We are LOVE...ALL of us.
❤
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 7:33 PM UTC
On the L:
She is simple and frivolous
You are far from chivalrous
She is fueled by fearlessness
You are pumped full of stimulants
She sees the entirety of innocence
You focus on the sombre imminence
She is bright & heavenly but wingless
Your eyes are dark with wickedness
She flicks her hair, always vertiginous
You are both unawarely synchronous
She smiles to her self, radiating magnificence
You feel the bitter grimace of indolence
something is changing, slightly, hardly noticeable
But her light, it shines on you
And you find your self shifting
Glancing at her sun tattoo
She turns to you & smiles
Then everything is changed
Everything floats for a while
As she puts her hand on yours
She scoffs - 'You look gloomy & brooding'
A chuckle escapes, long ago abhorred.
And slowly it'll spread
With the help of this lovely woman
But it'll take awhile for you to get into her head
And you will show her that the glass isn't half empty,
It isn't half full.
It's just a glass of water.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
*The garden is full of aromatic bloom
Perfumed notes intoxicating the olfactory
Lovers ready for a frenzied tango
Stage set on the lap of nature
To witness the most ravishing of performance
The stars have descended in the lovers eyes
Twinkling like the fireflies
Hearts beat in synchronous steps
Feeling deep inside, each others throbbing pulse
A game of surrender, where the lovers are on a high*
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
A second ago I was 1 hour younger, I remember it well.
The few gray hairs that I have accumulated atop my head, were not there pas' a moment,
This wrinkle in time adding yet another wrinkle to my brow, I have become wiser for it.
My innocence of youth has been unfairly taken, Oh how I long for the days of yestersecond.
I remember the clock set back to maybe a millimeter, my prostate was not quite this large,
And congress with my wife seemed to last for hours, but now mere minutes leaves me spent.
We used to jump into bed and sleep in the **** seems just an instant ago, but now
The coldness of aging has us encased in flannel pajamas, we sleep dreaming of yestersecond.
I awoke this morning to a brighter outside, the early birds singing, off kilter, unfamiliar;
Not synchronous at all with my hot cup of Kona, I scratch my chin anew with stubble.
For in such a short time, the moon waved forlornly goodbye, the sun bid faintly hello.
Mr. Meowgii, my cat, chasing the birds outside, thankful for the passing gift of yestersecond.
My kids, now practically grown, (9 & 13 +60 minutes) I envision car keys being handed over,
Challenges to my authority, relationships of their own, with the passage of this long hour.
"For The Times; They Are A-Changin" - Dylan -, though now for a clock he would sing.
A hiccup in the fabric of the space time continuum, indigestion of memories made I search.
Looking forward, come October late fall, when we all can regress, yet again,
Reclaiming what we have lost, one hour from yestersecond.
-----ChawzzyScript
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
this morning
this title introduced
through some separate
synchronous readings..
the question right now
how might patience
assist with this poem..
might it be
better to stop
stop writing just now
allow some gestation
some quiet perhaps..
resume in minutes,
or hours or weeks..?
hesitation quite brief
and rough writing began..
still the end
that distant goal
an insistent completion
seemed to delay
blocking the flow..
did a fear arise
prompted by
a finish out there..
that this poem will
never find ending..?
will likely end
as discard and refuse..
a walk.. reliable antidote..
there does seem
in those sometimes
an effortless flow..
other times
impatience a mooring
so patience might grow..?
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 12:08 PM UTC
Somehow the pain in my chest is always synchronous with
The times you refused to say you love me
Like there are two identical sides of sorrow
One you give, and one you cause me to be
What I need is love, as clear as the city lights
Reflecting like a painting on the sea
A love so loud, a melody, even the deaf could hear
I need to be loved like the sunset is on fire
Or the birds fall off the sky
There’s no time to be infinite
All we have is now
If in your future
Between the cars, the towers
My face to you is unclear
Just close your regrets with your eyes
Remember, I have always tried to be here
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
Fingers weaving together like lace
Arms wrap like an octopus embrace
Tongues play in synchronous dance
Eyes locking in a starlit trance
Head upon chest hearing the beat
Kiss to keppie soothing so sweet
Fitted together like a seamless dovetail
Undulating connected hearts set sail
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
(for tara)
fourteen years ago
we became sisters
and found instant
(colorful) reflections of
ourselves
in each other
you are
the sole observer
of the
humble and
beautiful beginnings (they always seem so nice)
the l i f e
(the dream, tara, the dream)
the hope
the utter despair
and ruin
of my love. of my heart.
you are
my moon
in synchronous orbit
checking on me
pulling me into you
when i am
nothing, tara,
but a wretched
sobbing
heap...
listening to my
incoherent sobs
for hours
your voice soothing,
"i know, amanda, i know..."
and now
as i barely have
my face
above water
...gasping for air
i see you plunge
into the water
beside me
s
i
n
k
i
n
g
tara
you are me
and i will catch you
and drag you
out of this ********
if it's the last thing i do
i don't know why
we cannot see
in ourselves
what we so plainly
see in each other
but in the mirror
i see first your beautiful smile
(so genuine)
the way you naturally
physically reach out to
people and touch them lightly
on the arm or hand or shoulder...
it radiates this warmth around you
that is magnetic and puts everyone at ease
then your
******* beautiful hair
that i have been
jealous of for
fourteen years
beautiful tumbling
waves that shine in the light
...then those eyes
amber deep
with a sparkle
to go with
that smile and laugh
and i'm sorry, girl
but your body
is banging...
you have always looked
like a spanish dancer
to me...like you should
have on a tight, shiny red dress
and should be moving those hips
and bumpin that ***
all over the floor
hair flying...eyes sparkling
men's jaws simply laying on the floor.
when i look in the mirror, sister,
that is what i see
and i am proud
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
Looking out my bedroom window
past the bluebirds and cardinals
vying for position on the seed-filled feeder,
past the doves and the squirrels
shamelessly settling for the leftovers below,
past the obligatory but unused lawn furniture,
past the turtles and storks and herons, and
past an alligator swimming slowly, but purposefully,
toward his place in the sun,
I can see the second green and the third tee
of the golf course where I live.
In these days of pandemic and social distancing
the golfers each drive their own cart.
On the putting green players stand six to ten feet apart,
no one touches the flagstick,
there are no high fives,
no shaking hands.
The green carts are driven
down the cart path
one-by-one
from two green
to three tee,
like four green baby ducks
following each other,
identical, synchronous, six to ten feet apart.
After teeing off
the players in the carts
again follow each other
one-by-one to the end of the path
before scattering
to the fairway or the bunker or the woods
or the edge of the lake
where the alligator has fallen asleep
in the sun with his mouth open
as if he is warning the golfers
to maintain the appropriate social distance.
Considerably more than six to ten feet apart.
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 11:53 PM UTC