Walking around the city with a stack of posters to put up.
It's illegal to poster on the poles in Halifax. You can get fined apparently.
Nevermind. The old ones ripped or peeled, staples stipple: birchbark. The poles are branch less tree trunks. Sticks whittled by big machines. The posters are paper from trees. I can feel a poem percolating. I won't staple leaves back on you, bones of trees. A new layer of bark won't bring you back. I'll stick them on windows instead: wet yellow leaves, some of them forcasting future wild nights.
I don't know what kind of tree poles are made of. Do you? The buses that buzz me have names like Lacewood and Hemlock ravine.
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