Peter Cowlam
Photo: PinkMoose
I drove, in leaden convoy,
On highways built
Through the thinning ambers of autumn,
In a falling of leaves fake in its evocation.
Then stumbled, on rented properties
Masquerading as exotica, and flamed
By the varnishes of Eden.
Here must I pause, at a bottomless pool,
With its waves of narcissistic contra-shocks,
Not finding my image reflecting there.
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