Sure there’s contour
among the bodies in the bushes,
as there are notebooks on the flora.
It’s the coughing that’s unnerving
May as well be at the beach, staring.
I was just walking my dog, man.
The cars came around the corner fast
their high beams blinding me momentarily.
I saw little else on those cloudless nights,
other than those wanderers.
It seems someone threw you back
as they would an old T-shirt.
Your followers and
their flickering torches
extended like comparisons
over a series of small hills.
They were spaced out eventually
hidden in seamless rhythm.
Voices can do the same
without the patience.
How could we realistically be
able to find a ride back into town?
It still bothers me to this day.
Before then, I had
never met the Druid
I could bargain with.
Colin James has a book of poems, Resisting Probability, from Sagging Meniscus Press. He lives in Massachusetts. (Direct link to other SMP titles.)
Show Colin some love via PayPal at janeannjames(at)yahoo(dot)com.