What was left of a pastoral

As a human being, my field of expertise seems to be
walking to places which
In turn
Displace me to other places
Mangled in the synthesis of commuting
– Blissful, as ever
When recognizably nowhere
Acknowledgeably nowhere
– Truthfully

nowhere is my shield
My flak jacket my kevlar vest my plate armour
My much-needed exoskeleton

Votre attention s’il vous plaît

(Much-needed indeed)

Les voyageurs à destination de

The yellow blue haze of the translucent windows gives way to
The transitional shimmer of every go-between land plane
where, I am told,
No man could possibly grow (Thank God)
unlike the electric clouds we keep in farms (Thank God)
– our fleecy go-to solution
Should the unfleeciest crisis emerge and see what is left
Of non-commuting places
And then proceed.

So far though we still get warmth during summer
Delivered at a steady pace
With no sign of slowing down
– Thank God.


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