autumn tics,
burnt soil to make space
smell to make currency
of what the poet can call pastoral,
but stinks to breathe, in close proximity (like most things foggy in close proximity)

TV for one and TV for all
the gibbering along,
gobbled garble in form
chewing gum in essence.

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 so she wills.

some time passed and some of it became a dance.

others will, others won’t.