untitled series

Alan Davies

The hills are black mollusks
against the sweating sun
and the river is iced slate-
however we speak of April
we mean that we're passing through.

There's just enough moon
to make of the hills
a very silent silhouette-
then peace ravages the brain
and cars start up in the carpark.

The world is a blissful contrivance
of thoughts and the thoughtful
the soft color of the air-
at night
you can't even see the river.

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