Slugs multiply in mire in moon-darkness
which carries this late summer
in every oak-leaf a question-mark
along the tree-lined path.
Yet another un-employed who
has stitched together
mouth, ears, fingers meets
Yet another burnt-out.
On the tree-lined path
hang out their reflector hearts.
From every oak-leaf a string
of well-thumbed bank notes, books;
Answers of no use. For two
toy-soldiers of a toy-war accused
of being armed men in a time of peace
in their dreams plant pearls on a Paradise beach
to thread on a string for the necklace
the Empress never dared dream.
On the tree-lined path nod
to eachother in condoleance:
Let’s toss up a coin for truce.
Tossed leaves in the fast lane,
slowly floating down,
are always of relevance.