i proceed along
a mind’s dense fog
until its thick footprints drop
down down down
onto a clay street below
like being sold short
half-story residing
in half shadows
the rest eaten for breakfast
twelve hours ago
or trapped within a breath
or quietly misunderstood
lingering patiently behind a
never-developed third eye
connected to a heart
across the street
a little dog yaps
in solid hours
chases passersby
he’s always alone, that one
by mary ann blinkhorn
mypenandme 