One Year (351/365)

One year                                                                                                                              

Whodve thought

It had become a habit 
a good or bad habit 
made no difference

he was habitchualised

he grasped their buoyant motes happily
                                           chased them around like slippery soap bubbles
against a blue sky above green grass

turned them one after the other like
coloured baubles strung on a wire
                                     or with his fingernail he pushed
bright wet seaglass out from among grains of sand on the beach above tongues of white boiling surf

habitchualised
                 addickted

it could always be worse                                                                                                                                                        

2349,  Sunday,  15  2. 15

  1300, Monday,  16  2. 15