autumn tics, burnt soil to make space smell to make currency of what the poet can call pastoral, yet stinks to breathe, in close proximity (as most things foggy in close proximity) TV for one and TV for all the gibbering along, gobbled garble in form chewing gum in essence, pop! the neighbouring sheep seem to agree a neighbouring language in perfunctory syntax: meh! the clock’s tocs, missing entirely, but not missed. a punch mocked twitching, imperative, a phantom limb, but not missed. the latest vines, burning near and now distant foods, whole way down the chain of command, the general’s general, that is, ordering from abroad. it’s clickbait, but fun. and so you wait, the baker comes before dawn breaks, brave labour, to bet on the Sun. and win. the girl leaving school syncs up with public exuberance, fingers, winks, jumps and all. she will faint if she so wills. some time passed and some of it became a dance. others did, others won’t.