Cascade It All Back

Five counters on the lawn wet one.

Five counters fall on suspicious glass

broken inwards; an interim which

rehoists the pole which

was built bitterly and furtive.

Wayfarers return tomorrow,

chirping to felled and wooden and captive sand; imprints

of old bark, green impressions which are given

a suspicious sort of look; broken flag to

flag, your resentment shored by

lilies, tomorrow:

yesterday broken into, tomorrow

there is an invasion and you pay for it, in one sense now and later in the other.