by Paul Davis

Your feet feel it
first, the transmission
prays and bows down.
Stationary as a steeple.

The creation of a
place of flowers and
trees. Is this
parking, too?

Rest, rejuvenation of
muscle and tissue.
In bed, we are stopped
like startled deer
looking up suddenly.

Those mammoth places
holding movement
in suspension
are merchants of inertia.

I return to the bench
and fountain, to
broom away the peaceful afternoon.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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