election blues

plane trees drop their golden dust
into the back of our throats
there's someone over there walking on a steel roof
with a plan and a rule

we talk about merging levels and soft barriers
we are holding onto what

on Saturday I'll head up to the agora
to scratch on some potsherd
ostracising myself or this gloomy country
with clay on my hands



Comments

Popular Posts

Questions, but no answers: while editing a manuscript

Viva the Real - shortlisted!

‘The fast fold of fret lines’: Intimacy, ecopoetics, and the local