Richard Mather
Under the aerosolised sun,
Through a delicate mist,
A plastic bag hangs limp
from an ancient branch.
A proposition shows itself.
If I follow you,
I can make an inference
from you to me, deduce me from you.
The brains of the buried
Keep dreaming --
Of paradise or of hell,
Depending on the disposition
Of the atoms and the humidity
Of the soil.
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