Due Course
A Poem

A little by that elm with its cast-off balls of seeds the mere mention of colour withering the rest of the background The hills are bare again sitting still and then walking away Tripped up by the charts the compass which spins whichever way it feels like never coming to a complete stop even when you fall on your face This syncretion of awareness switching between various combinations of your sight and blindness So you’ve left all your coffee tables behind and you don’t have the voice to summon another cartographer
J.D. Harms 2020
