Monday, 17 September 2012

Grouse Season

He lines up the ducks and shoots them ratatatat.

Falling feathers tickle the sky; it sneezes.

You are standing in a field, face upturned, waiting for spittle.

Tell me, what do you get out of these roles of the dice?

What cloven pony hooves gallop on your heart?

Well, it is hunting season and the leaves scatter and curl on the ground

bright orange chanterelles dirtying in the gutters.

The new wind knocks him down like a combine harvester

and the gun goes bang.

Autumn is turning the leaves aflame in their puddles.

Pasted in the cobblestones, the leaves turn red.

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