by grimbeau


…time moves in an oboe polka from slug

slow to impish sprite, flits in heavy privet,

snakes under town tractors, hides behind

wheelie bins, always a nick ahead of

the quick, automatic click, the belated

enough glance, the I’m looking for you look,

off it skedaddles, darting, flitting, slick

freezing stone still, mischievous, keen alert,

a baby Pan messing in misty morning moonlight.

I am busy elsewhere, cursing these bogus charts

messing with focal planes, vanishing points,

hocus-pocus concepts of moon, window-

frame, yucca and squint till boss-eyed, purblind,

I  miss the goings-on altogether…