Bump. Bump. Bump.
The tarmac winces inaudibly as I step
Down its coal-black ribbon of road
With apples in the bag.
Bump. Bump. Bump.
A pheasant darts over my head,
It’s sweat of water droplets whispering,
Telling me that I’m alive.
Bump. Bump. Bump.
The lane grows longer as I breathe deeply
My legs sprouting like weeds from the road.
Arms growing heavier from the
Bump. Bump. Bump.
Incredibly, the moon is still hanging weightless
And the hedges have not yet been crushed
By its outrageous, pitted bulk.
Bump. Bump. Bump.
The audible edges of the silence
Prick my ears, until I can hear the nothing
Rustling subtly under the
Bump. Bump. Bump.
I am part of the world.
My breath joins the air again, again
And I am distinguished only by
Bump. Bump. Bump.