hear the terrible troubles old men, walk slow
address me personally: for the theory comes that you are next: a jaundiced hand, to go.
late last summer, after the rhododendron had faded and the gardens were at seed a man walked in the early morning mist scanning the fading Quercus carpet
for what may have seemed, gold, and left again with barely a nod to the gatekeeper
my note: a fading, jaded pop before falling asleep, for falling: awake and lying deep, caught up in covers waiting for the brittle sound of my cheap alarm clock to stir, still tired.
woman was there, sitting, reading, paying scant attention to grey squirrels that hounded her purse