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.
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