Art Music Poetry #77

Anchored in

oblivion, attached to

lost friends, so

gone they have no fond

memories.

You do though…

the flowers picked, presented

to warm eyes,

neighborhood news man

bicycling.

Chestnut wars

fifty paces from “blue lake.”

She jumps in,

swims under water,

pulls shorts down.

Decisions

pile, conspire, socialize, while

baked clams soak.

You walk into gray.

Where’s Hyuntay?

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