March 4

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.