A Man In The Circle

david swung 'round his
leather satchel- felt numbingly,
the contract of books,
tinny flowers
canned long by- and
families, oh yes.

he smacked-not on the eye-a small girl beside him.
she cried out, but was all-right in the end-

and the grass
made surprising patterns on
his new black shoes

he looked dutch, or
at least a passive country-
but one still who

would sit on top of the tin roofs and shoot small grouse guns at the undulating landscape
of enemy-

a white gull cried above-
it was morning a windy morning a warm and windy morning
but the tail-end of warm the hyphenated warm that was summer
and will not be summer any longer. the beginning of autumn
a necklace. a peppering-leafy cross-

and he laughs.
he does not smoke
no nor does he bend down often to feel between his hands the
ashy kiss of ground

which he regrets,
david does