A loud morning in my block,

an inside fire burning my neighbours up.

Downcast smiles all around,

a grandmother filled with Buddha.

I hope she makes it to the promised land.

There’s no stopping the movement,

four hours on and four hours off.

Then on the road again,

returning armed with youth exhausted.

And black pus oozing from open wounds.

Another time washed day,

brooding in the low blazing ruby sun.

A patchwork quilted earth

betrayed by a liberating plague.

A small sense of self, only life.