intermittent rain
followed by the sun somegrey puddles
wet grass
deep pockets at Boisseranc
cut the turf
a layer of ready mud
neath yellow scrag
missing it
'A long while sick, supposed.'
he didn't look from the shadowed lap
his wiry face
his eyes closed
guilty I say
mine come in cotton shirts
and the smell of Canoe
never tugging on attention
but if I look they are
unencumbered
reminiscent
breathing deep
always there
other spirits come as lighted orbs
their chests raise and fall
but they mock
the action
mindless
rote
lost
...
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