Flying Chaucer

by grimbeau

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Touched

by a film

of frost,

the chill

Cascades
Waspishly

from the fanlight

Squirts
Little nips

of morning,

Bikini weather.

Motorway

neuronal

city women
fret more

about how

they look

than fish do.

Pastel shy-blue,

sky-blue

Sky

evicts

beige clouds

Twenty eight thousand

Miles out there,

just now

A space boulder

passed

over my

Shoulder.