sleeping hares.

Thistles missed by ploughs that rose 

Through the snow hare sleeping off 

the holes in story’s they can’t cover 

Or repair the not now or ever.

as wave chasers awake with no where to go 

Chasing dialect and the only version of 

themselves.

The strike of matches only poses questions 

that mislead those waiting for a dance 

across provinces into the ballast field of Apres

The shadow gardens of a roman 

That stood until the fall of a wall.

The chattering veneers pinned on tails 

Three box’s of spilt pink clover bowl 

Laying Deaf to the wanton needs as the water 

Simmered around the river scales.