Exit Grief

Winter night cold waits
on the borders of each settlement;
Frosting the grass with delicate threats
of treacherous beauty.
Breath-mist is proof of life.

Foxes scamper where sight meets shadow,
litter is discarded chaos theory.
Trying to prove its point,
it argues with landfills and origami.
But the pattern is gravity

Garish lights from shops
cause one to look away
and thus annul their purpose
of brightness and pavement catches.
The road is the noble choice.

Wide windows reveal masses,
their uniform silhouettes
are attempts to disguise varied faces,
dancing without rhythm.
Collective consciousness is an idiot.

Contented, outside.

November 2010


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