I have this dirty feeling
plants could grow on my face.
The topsoil promised
is more than politically adequate,
forecasting a downwards growth
pursuing light.
Tea, man is like ubiquitous.
Then in the evenings
tropical card games,
and the disparate dichotomy of doom.
Technically, we have removed
enough of the forests
to consider any theory
other than this tendentious
one coalesced.
Colin James has a chapbook of poetry, A Thoroughness Not Deprived of Absurdity, out from
Pskis's Porch Press.
Pskis's Porch Press.