I remember strolling down a hill once,

In my dreams probably. 

You could see the clouds kind of loosing their ways at that longitude. 

I have never been to hills. 

But oh my! These glasses of fluidic compassions and vacant impositions can get you to places. 

There’s a wooden chair at the corner…brown patches everywhere, 

I dream my dreams from there…well not from there; actually through there.  

“Poets are lonely creatures… They feed through the pulses of this quiescent beat…don’t get public man.” 

I ain’t gonna do that. 

I am gonna hang my poems from the twigs of my dilettante tree… 

For an old pal, a cycling lad or the oblivion of the stalworths…

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