Cramp-like coils in the
evening
Some images puncture the
way new neather comes
within the same paragraph
Puncture them sighing,
somewhat swaying the boughs
A new century is just a
dusty shelf
its bare trees line the
converging walkway
Our breathing is not like
wings, chimney smoke
the same interspersed
buds
Each word the common
ground plants in itself
Paul
Baumann
