This is sinister.
My left hand is more dextrous
than my right hand is.

People who freefall
with defective parachutes
jump to conclusions.

Puffballs in the sky
possibly the breath of gods.
Rain must be their spit.

Rubber ringed at birth,
lambs develop skeletons
that are quite detailed.

The dry leaf floats down
from where it clung all winter,
lands in a puddle.

Tony Cloke

If you have any comments on this poem, Tony Cloke would like to hear from you.

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