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All life hangs 
between yellow and green
pylons of light

At the umber edges of the afternoon
a dog sleeps with pricked ears –
in its road-kill pose

Scraps of cumulus
float seawards to dissolution
their slate underbellies carry the sun –  
so close a forefinger and thumb
could pluck it from its furnace

I’ve abandoned this poem
to watch a kite weighted
by a flower pot
inhale  and     exhale
          in a protest of
orange and     magenta

As birds with names
I still don’t know
turn shrubbery to song —
into exquisite impermanence.

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