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…