March 23, 2013 § 4 Comments
utopia: come back through the tunnel and arrive
when the night is backing from parked cars
seldom come they singing without mouths
moving in time to the stars and the last
sentenced to upheaving cobbles; fall ye.
Utrechtenaar give me a way to say ‘buried’ without the end
leave it to the mythmaker, Sabba, go now
to white women dancing away the nightflies in an anaemic haze
leave it to the halfway in translation
and behold, our roots are
grounding. the roots are grounding.