Norfolk to Staten Island

I wander lanes with my granddad
we find wonderful things
we find stick guns and copper coin trinkets
red moss lost in the dead stock fog clouds.

Harpsichord wind whistles tickle my mind bristles frivolous
requiems and epitaphs and crossbows and catapults
pigeons and doves look lost in the long grass
We slept late after trips to cathedrals

There was a CD under the hedgerow
left of the oak trees west of Mont-A-Pica
Gramps saw the sunshine splash on the mirror disc
I brushed the soil dust off the golden W

Between weather stained branches and berry chains dancing
we followed routes to the lines of the treasure trove
treasures left waiting for new hands foraging
we took it home and plugged in the stereo

Of all the Sundays draped in a wax jacket wardrobe
this was a discovery – our finest by far
lines of our grid pattern lives lost miniature
36 chambers new to the bungalow.

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