What we were met with was not assembly
But aftermath
The carcass spread out, shaking itself
Life the man under the lamp.
People were no longer shaken
By the hand or the offering
Of stall-desperate suffering
No longer fed with formations of colour
It is not snow that
is flaking
But yesterday’s imagery.
A handprint reaches out
From a coffee-cup cast aside
In the morning, the plastic
Strengthens the spine
Of the monstrous
The city is porous
The top-later still dries
To the feet in the chorus.
What came before us
Was known as culture
-
Why?
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