The autodidact’s wheelchair

sun slap green, 
worn, on his corduroys

as they flap listless

like sleeves of the missing

limbs of a scarecrow 


draped on the monocle, 

the wheel of his barrow

tapping red flip flops, 

catch on his tongue 

like thoughts un handled 

by the rupture of words,

bones no longer own.

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the glow worm of his pupil
alights in the constant dark of day

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