Chalk on the blackboard
dry, I’m chalk on the street. I’m I I I.
I am your outline, your line out,
your line-up, your lesson,
Kilimanjaros infinitum,
choirs of white-washed
roller coasters past.
Gully, you know me:
the silver-linings, apostolic, lab-coated
host of me. Advancing like a wood,
more ghostly than Banquo,
I cast no shadow.
And vertically I barely creak
in wind that raised and hung me
out to dry, broken in several places,
breaking all the day I need.
Sycamores at High Noon
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