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.

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