Great Brown Oak (i)
Gentle, the grass
left there as though
only as an afterthought.
Warm, on your fingers
dew, they are silent
and you feel the moisture slide
down the arch of my hand
Curved, like the way you hold a ball
the fluffy sound
of the piano keys, delicious
and you smack your lips
Feet, gritty pavements
bloody it, but you smile
because right down the alley
you see.
And then you run.
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