My hands, from the cold air hide in my pockets. Dark horizon but following the path, skimming the ground with my shoes in the gravel. Is it sky or earth?
Seriously interfering in the neglected categories, on the verge of effusion, between the faded eyelashes of time (presumably), and delaying the insertion of a scrimpy alphabet seeking appeasement. *first published in April 2019, modified in April 2020
as long as one knows
that behind the row of trees
there is white smoke