London fog, an earth breath,
an earth beat, earth sweat.
My own poetic
lost in, following it,
away from light bulbs
and hardwood, away from
cold drinks and lattes,
away from going, getting some where.
A continent of ice collapses, and the winter
is pleasant.
The swaggers of the season
do not spin the room.
I sit, collapsing,
mild,
with still breath, still sweat.
Pleasant.
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