Nasturtian Complex

Join me as I slink to twig the silver
dust away from the campfire’s embers.
See the fire glow: teaspoon it to flame,
Carefully perch the tall, crimson pot atop,
askew atop that is, and dig the day’s
latrine with that small yellow plastic spade.
We are on the outskirts of the craic of dawn.
Scantily clad tidings of cheap skates and
Square war-jaws, cousins to sleep’s hazel
snacks and myxamatosis of your mind’s eye.


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