if a home I had
I wouldn’t have discontinued
the trinkets, I find my life.
they somehow have me they aren’t alone.
don’t figure out
who they are? or else you’ll
lead me, my urban
which you give the dreams
and where me, a dream daily dies.
a vase of 1990’s vintage stands
down in the mouth, porous, its skin
holds the patterns of the past,
sleazy newspapers read bulletins of the times horrible than ours;
in a pitcher, surrounds the life
of a broken lid, and no undersides.
thousands of kilos of polyethylene bags promises within,
an énouement sky I see over flyovers
gently sloping to our huts underneath
much the same as silt, grit, and gravels.
people where understand no people
think no more.
they couldn’t have but they’d skinned my cat for
their one-time meal and me, I ate my heart.