Nine
Nine, growing in your garden, tennis balled, nettled feet, under spell heat dressed
in your hills quiet blanket.
Barren block of shadow banquet, seized, drowned, caved mind.
Nine. Weather comes out broad through wooden planks,
attached tear drops rope the sky.
Sticky eyes, stung loose.
Warmed itchy, Prone to gravel raids-
tones brush a song.
Sinkers melt your webs drunk, pruned in day lights amazement.
Creatures from the deep end perform, scribbling along your intentions.
Snakes sit; Capital rainy sleepers.
pecking whistles lime your feet,
A sliding shadow is your mirror, at nine.
Copyright © James Tee | Year Posted 2014
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