WALKING WITH A 3D HEAD:

Fog in the distance conceals someone over there looking over here,
thinking I’m their fog in the distance. Walk the early dirt track,
soak up the sounds of a morning gifted to boys on journeys.
Birds on wires, the black winged marks of a music in my head.
The rhythm of the crunch underfoot, the muted whisper of grasses
heavy with dew. Slip your hands out of your pockets, feel the
thrill of a cold sting, knuckles pink, cheeks blushed, taught as
bongo skins, eyes clear, everything in 3D.

(K)