There are no wild geese performing semaphore
to inform us of our place in any family of noble ideas.
Here, pigeons hobble on their mangled feet,
devouring public waste, and anything
too weak to drag itself back to safety.
No cave hides behind any waterfall for office workers
to clamber into and cry for their mistakes,
and yet the crashing roar of traffic and incessant blare
of gym bangers belting out from lunch-break speakers
ensure the world hears nothing of such complaints.
What can we repent for with this as our example?
When the world continues regardless
of where we point our heads, what respite
can be found for the soft animals of our bodies?
Looking outwards there seems little left to feed them.
Here, the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything
emerges from an asphalt meadow;
a solitary wildflower clinging to a curb-side crack.
It is offered in such strange moments: it vibrates
in the larynxes of shit-faced hookers carolling the moon.
The world of bright blue skies and clear pebbles of rain
lies imagined, blurred and buried beneath a smog of history,
or glares in high definition beneath a sheen of sponsored messages.
To be as wild and free as migrating geese above this place,
do not click here to watch more—just close your eyes and listen.