Tin Thimbles
Jason Wilkinson

The highway is a still wintry pose
shuffled bath worn
round like tin thimbles
tumbling to the stiff grass
beneath my shoes I am often
tempted to pick one up and
let fly with it into the street
where cars vanish beyond a
slideshow of pinionless distances
to watch it slip
from the blur of my gloved extremity
an arc darting against the gelid
draught compensating its
daft motion with another
footstep the sparkles would
abscond into the morning light

And here the cobble is plaqued
arranged in derisive,
unmusical abscesses
tempering my way
stations flicker inconsciently
they drift off the petalled
arcade dreamily sashed
Coriolanian domes billowing

And as my heels clap I am
as but one of many voices
their cordoned ensemble
engendering us to
bootless proclivities flounced
with radios winding curvilinear
torpedo shaped declensions
vanquished turnstiles appear between
orchidaceous plumes

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