Having come to expect little else, this inaction
captures your attention, then yanks it abruptly
until you watch for it to occur. In a coffee shop
fluid with desire, you find yourself again beneath
reddening clouds
as your refuse is carried to an undisclosed site.
Misanthropy and inclination rush into bloom;
something behind the dumpster now bothers
your attention traisping out on a line somewhere
between wooden clothespins—
a landscape drifts beyond, faltering in dissent.
There is an ability you aptly posses, an unwanted
gift
existing as merely one more thing that hides out there.
It could happen like this: you leave work, late, rain
begins to fall. Transgression.
[ rdking.net ]