and Galleries,

| Angling shadows of itself are what |
| Your 'Poet's Chair' stands to and rises out of |
| In its sun-stalked inner-city courtyard. |
| On the qui vive all the time, its four legs land |
| On their feet - cat's-foot, goat-foot, big soft splay-foot too; |
| Its straight back sprouts two bronze and leafy saplings. |
| Every flibbertigibbet in the town, |
| Old birds and boozers, late-night pissers, kissers, |
| All have a go at sitting on it sometime. |
| It's the way the air behind them's winged and full, |
| The way a graft has seized their shoulder-blades |
| That makes them happy. Once out of nature, |
| They're going to come back in leaf and bloom |
| And angel steps. Or something like that. Leaves |
| On a bloody chair! Would you believe it! |
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This Haiku By EveryOne
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