As if tracing a perfect, pre-destined route,
the bird soars

through the air,
turning that clichéd blue sky blindingly blue —

an afternoon sky
under which I am going postmodernly mad

A gaggle of customers stuck outside the restaurant
throngs round the entrance
not able to queue

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Tom Fleet

Survivors, Hungering
Gliding perfectly straight, now there’s a bird  knows where it’s going
The sky shimmering blue, rendered by it in passing
The afternoon beneath, turning delirious and postmodernly so
People too late for tables stood lineless at the door

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