even the starlings rut & fade early, tired

of musing, also this winter month

spent at their own sexual pollock art.

flys zero in, tack the buckled screens;

passers-by seem to approach one & every

line of sight, only to pass by your way.

it’s the pressure, always is & will be

in the minds of people cloistered &

preening on a wing opposite, & me,

i type to clench the blood free of

icicles i curse or cure the systemic

benefit of a deadline, an atonal scale:

the financial years pass prettily

like a thousand & one plane-trees

while i drive a car, mist burning.

.

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