The pebbles and cairns of noise
percolate into the wall of deafness.
From the corner of my white
I see the shadowy figure
of my mother staring at
the verdancy of lichen
on the bare chest bend of the fence.
Light prays in front of one zen snail.
Swirling mottles settle when the ray
reclines on the persistence of time,
and silence moans as it copulates
with darkness. Here nothing else
matters; we listen to the news
the way aliens hear the natives speak.
The arid sea of the stone chips surge.
The lampposts stand like a row
of seaside shacks during the onset of a pestilence.
Photo Nick Victor