I found myself
foolish enough
to believe
I had stepped on
something permanent.
The ground stood
firm as Sherman's
line to the sea,
and left me
drowned
in toilet-bowl drudge
of mushroom
cow flop
in Farmer's Hill
drain pipe
of the last old saloon
kept yellow
in the wood,
carving out a little
space for its own,
a campfire
far from the beach,
the sea-breeze reaches
of the ruffian bank.
Manchester pines
bow break and fall
tautly sinew
tapered tall legs
level down to prawn,
leaning on the green
of praying mantises
mating on the garden hose.
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