A flurry
of edges, of outcasts,
Those
things seemingly beyond principle—
A rusted tractor gathering color,
The
soggy noodles and plain sauce served
Luke-warm
to cold on Friday (and “thank you
For
cooking, Hauke”), small children
Calling
their parents by their first name.
Yesterday,
tribes of rain clouds
Parted and twisted slowly
Amongst
themselves, incense
After
the rain dance that
We
didn’t perform.
Sometimes,
a day will
Cock its
head and look at you
Sideways.
When this happens,
Gather
your things, and
Go stand
on the upper field,
Amongst
the whipping heads of wild flowers.
See what
doesn’t fly away.
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