The shadows move in their pre-dawn mirage.
Birdsong haunts the lukewarm streetlight like a black comedy.
This hoop is a belligerent tattoo.
My hands fan the oil spill.
Pouring from the mouthpiece in my neck.
A train’s whistle.
My effigy mollifies.
Its blue shimmer dyes the grass.
The cat’s paw; a commemorative stamp.
Courtenay's Corner 