Writing in Whangarei

The night vodka got into the compost

by Martin Porter

Franz Kafka, diaries 1910-1923

Were we crazy?
We ran through the park at night
Swinging branches until our leaves fell,
Exhausted, laughing at the full Moon,
Roots free at last, tasting fresh air
For the first time, enlivening their thirst
For ground waters again.

We might have been observed…

We watch you in the day,
Little people tripping over the stones
Crushing grass in the haste to get
From where to where?
Kicking up the gravel.
Dance on, hasty fools,
What concern is it of mine?


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