TUESDAY 19
A car on the verge,
its wing ripped. Conversations
begin on the bus.
WEDNESDAY 20
In the wall they’re
building, the tops of bricks say
6 6 7 12.
THURSDAY 21
After the full moon,
a ripped-off wing, black and white,
a head, some gnawed joints.
FRIDAY 22
The discarded wreath
I saw weeks ago, discoloured,
still at the dovecote.
SATURDAY 23
Trees in orchards fleeced
along their boughs, lambs in the
pastures, blossoming.
SUNDAY 24
I really saw a
green cow walking on hind legs,
by the busy road.
MONDAY 25
On the tarmac, black
lace shadows of straight tree trunks,
a wall’s jagged edge.
Seventeen 