Lying in the sun holding a book in the shadow of someone’s mailbox—
I don’t care whose—I must shuffle forward every few minutes.
I am trespassing.
But when is a person not trespassing in this world?
A white bird catches my attention with its shadow,
changes speed significantly without moving at all—a breeze.
The grass shifts uncomfortably under my weight.
Moments pass and there is no evidence
that the past cringes at becoming
philosophically unstable.
The moment is over, slipping beyond the possibility of possibility and so
on.
SMALL CRIMES by Dustin Junkert | Sandalwood Vanilla Poetry Reed Diffuser
$15.00Price
