home came the poem
the poem came home
to the forest be it
pulp fiction or even the bible
returned to mulch the same place
as the forebears of the words
in detritus dying to be free
of the canopy the panoply
of late poets the last train
of thought has prised open the
book of words and the fungi have
their sporangia nodding in slow motion
to the thoughts that decay on the
forest floor kicked by the hooves
of the four horsemen
that reverse the tears
that replay time and the snuffling of youth
returning all back to the single mind
that took refuge on the penultimate page
and paused over the epilogue of time’s
time to be ablated in the gib gnab
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