What are you going to do?

I shall sit here awhile and describe the light that falls
through the leaves, but never reaches the ground.

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Somewhere, Not Here

What does one possibly say to the abandoned traffic light, who’s not turning but refuses to hammer out this supposed future we’re always hearing so much about. Think of the tumbleweeds as they stroll through this forgotten town. What must they think of us? Our abandoned cars and putrefying corpses.

One gets the sense that this is not Kansas anymore. I want to feel the shape of your moan just before the equinox. Where the earth trembles and spits forth some blessed migrant. Can’t you see how crowded it is in here already? No more room. No more room.

The Mysterious Champion of No Good

Somewhere near the Isle of Forgotten Salads I saw you checking out expired dates. I thought perhaps you noticed my over-sized shopping cart in the shape of Amsterdam, but who can be sure these days, what with the never ending advertisements for lasagna pasted all over the museum.
I’m afraid all the petals have fallen off my Gerard Manley Hopkins, which is okay, as I never had much use for a comeback. It’s much easier to stay hidden. Is this the season in which you migrate? Hey, I like your hat! It must mean something, right?
Anyway, feel free to pluck the blossom from the wolf of my hand.