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By series: Bridge St  In Yr Ear  Ruthless Grip

Happy Boysenberry

My true home is on this hill

Inside an old house

Behind a brace of hemlocks.

I open packages


When they arrive

Curious to be surprised

By word or image

By sound or shape.


Light, shadow and the seasons

Play on these walls like old

Friends.  Not one dogma claims me

Since I swallowed


The tragic pill and got the joke.

I can see from here.