Leaving home
Even big chunky pieces
of knitted aluminium
have souls
This evening I chased the sunset
in Monet painted skies.
If your bird goes west
you have the chance to catch it
at least three times over
It’s like respawning
It’s like refusing
to go out in the inky forgetfulness
The clouds were witnesses
of my rebellion
against the dark
My mind painted
like Hopper
on hazy ambivalent canvasses
and scorched horizons.
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