i like to call this « recovery »

Quietly standing
and breathing golden light
in a garden
bending over, and
folding fresh laundry

as the hill spirit
forgets you
and chews on the smokes
of the highway

(and the rusty chain
is locked again)


Quietly singing, without
anything else than

cherished memories
of carcasses
and shrieks
as the sun sets
behind the hill.