1699
5.267
24.ix.24
on liberty
Staten Island Ferry
crown of thorns
the patina
like coin in a puddle
you’d cross an ocean
from what?
for what?
it’s vigilance voice
makes great again
huddle ye masses poorly
a cairn cement
cloud shadow
for the sardine chained of Africa
for the red folk, their reservation shrinking
and tatters fly
climb higher
see the long arm and the city from here
skies scrape at this imagining
through these eyes
this mind –
the gold flecked choc top hoisted high
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.