Reaching down into that sack
that’s always emptying;
scrabbling for ideas, having gobbled
the best of them years ago;
the left overs chewed
to the point flavourlessness.
Ambitions skinnier than wish-bones;
the best ideas: elusive sparks
that fly and quench.
Always running after notions
that were a May afternoon’s falling petals
forty years ago;
always straining for the psychedelic sky
colouring a different planet.
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