77 Blue Moss Circle

Bright and warm,
	dry, the sun’s friendly.
Sweet smell, cool
	dark grey branch windy.
Footsteps close a journal.

My hands wave in
	fluid air.
Nothing hurts just
	holds there.
Slick grass hands numb me blind.

Matte white spines
	poke, cactus smiles.
Thick smog blur
	lake, sky for miles.
Dinner’s far, forever’s pause.

	shade shells.
Bones click into
	root wells.
Eyelids slide under view.

Breath purple 
	buds, their scents dance.
Open air
	bends, for heat’s glance.
Gravel helps the smolder.

Rope holds plastic
	red swing,
disc for dancing,
	seat ring.
Cobble marks the atrophy.

Blue shrill voice
	calls out from trees.
Orange branch
	pluck, sighs ‘Take these.’
Sour pulls my face gladly.

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