wayward tail-end of
the storm
writhing like an
invisible scorpion’s
somewhere up there,
out there, at five,
soft grumble against
a waterpaint-grey sky
wayward tail of the
past, wagging
through each horsehair word I
wrote at school,
and still, each word
a grain, crystalline or
organic, salt
and pepper and mustard,
skipping and tripping through
history, vinegar creeks against
the paperwhite sky,
prehensile tails of the shrinking future
stirring deep beneath the
violet sheen of the present,
the wayward world turning
over in bed just once more
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