sitting at the world's edge
in a garden chair
who do you look for
wood pigeon calls
sky seems vast above
circus tent stretched tight
to its highest point
by the invisible pole of my perception
sloping low to each horizon
great dome above
sphere circling our hazelnut globe
but it is nothing
the stretch the slope the height the dome
dove rests fat on a branch
of an awkward lopped pollarded tree
ugly forking leaf-encrusted rune
etched in black green silhouette
moss droppings litter
the time-stained paving flags
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