There's a calm between the breeches, though a chill now chides the gilt edge.
Here the world is just like any good avenue, pocketed by noise static birch trees -
except these are at half mast, fungal, bruised and bad inside. A stifled itch
is a plague that grows into an epochalypse.
Not all white powder is a drug. How you'd itch your foot,
and then put your foot in it. What peace there was is in pieces,
and we're evacuating like movie stars down a satin safety flume.
And now the calm is at the speckled pebble departure lounge beach. I wish to leave.
Comments about this poem (Botany Lobotomicide by Alexander Hawkins )
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