i like to call this “recovery”

epicene-writing:

Quietly standing
and breathing golden light
in a garden
bending over, and
folding fresh laundry

as the hill spirit
forgets you
and chews on the smokes
of the highway

(and the rustly chain
is locked again)

*

Quietly singing, without
anything else than

cherished memories
of carcasses
and shrieks
as the sun sets
behind the hill.