like a jaded drop-out
dogged by sway,
placid yet clutched at the knuckle;
can it be there is no
ricochet or flinch
at the bearings taken,
just a slump in the beeline
a state-of-the-art amble
along yawning slip roads
that branch away from
a solidarity which makes
sense to some
yet is a cliché to another who
takes the lead from a
subterranean source
confessing every blade of
camouflage, giving the game away
that hasn’t already been lost, set back
in a search oblivious to acquisition
taking refuge in the bolt-hole of nebula
that embryonic nook so coveted
where a continuous u-turn backs-up
the long-distanced forerunner
