On the Path

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.

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