trucked

trucked

Alone at the stop

comes  

a convoy

3 stories high

bound for oblivion.

Sounds and smells,

feels,

like sheep:

but it’s

an imitation

of death’s.

the abandoned orchard

the abandoned orchard

where pensioned plums

can no longer bear fruit

at the last 

laden with parrots

rosellas and grass

across a day

in a leaky boat

past roses siphoning sun

and anemones  bristling gold

I’m   in prism,

in gelatinous air,

 dead man float

where  sun spirits fall

and skitter from sea

lighting soul, lighting me

wind turbines

grind atop hill

tumbling seconds

past until.