Walk your yawning old self into naked, stark morning.
Too good to be true—that’s the lungs’ swell verdict
on this instant
intoxicant air, the atmosphere light,
as a dark crow feather
bookmarking some yet-to-be-read typographically concrete page.
(Is it the breeze that reads
as it breathes through overhead wires,
through the spiral
arterial branch-lines of the trees?)
Pants dance the flap on a deserted clothes-hoist ⸺
they kick up their cuffs
at the world’s heavy duty ⸺ while a shower of berries
like pellet ball-bearings
scatters hard noise across quiet’s tin roof,
putting all calm’s composure
quite sorely to the test.
No one ever takes no for an answer,
but there is another world ⸺
IT IS THIS ONE ⸺
and tomorrow will still be new.
Photograh: Evette Kwok (2020)