Narrow lanes, glass spiked walls,

brick upon brick, buildings off kilter

and still they keep rising. Buses

belch fumes, cycles heat the wind-starved air

Mud and rubble for road, garbage for path,

I’ve become motor, I’ve become

fume! Blue blackened with after image,

I’ve quarantined the personal

and severed the miraculous just above the bone

Just to keep walking, just to

and only just. Green hills in the distance,

blue sky in the palm of my hand,

the path forgotten in the wake of my heels

The pot-holed street opens

beneath me; its ruptured guts trip me up;

its vented rage blisters my spine

I’ve become delusion I’ve become spleen

July 2, 2015


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s