Wednesday, July 8, 2009
It’s April; showery spring-time
Washes rigid roads
In showers, dirt-coloured,
Lined bright with not-quite-white dead flowers.
Bruised beauties, they ride on fumes, freefall
Blindly, elegantly, high
While my feet skirmish in wrecked
Glass, this broken show of nature
Lies low in concrete, clothed in grey.
It has no place here, finds no peace,
Caught in the city’s slingshot sliding
doors and disagreeing with what is Real.