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by Alan Britt

October rolls in the grass
spilling apples
from its lips

Hands riding in automobiles
pull at the sky

A lawyer wakes up
watches a woman walking
across her back lawn

Someone drifts to a kitchen faucet
bumps against spoons

A hidden record’s music
peels off the walls

The wind carries a thistle
as brown shoes run through a field
searching for October
playing in the dark grass


Alan Britt is part of the Immanentist group, which, he asserts, is different from the Surrealists. (Fall 1974)

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