The Wanderer

From the pines’ embrace the wanderer plies
to a green stream’s niggard bank.
The restocked eider flounders to wing,
weakly sputtering water about.

Dusk crawls into a boring park.
A lazy deer starves in a copse,
its blunt snout snatching at a question.
Our mind is nothing but incursion.

An old pot boils on the fire.
Expensive fibre dries on a branch.
At night, our mustard’s yellow glitter
grinds the skin of charred banger.

From The Bad Mother (Paha äiti), 2012.

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