Poetry

Sigh

Another day with no name,
no number, before or after

the black sands burn
a black smoke

*

I’ll throw a hammer at the window…
just to see the glass fall

with sharp flashing anger that (maybe)
you’ll notice… because why
aren’t you angry?
Why isn’t your anger balled up
in a grimace
of bitter conviviality?

*

Who are these people I see each day
walking the path to the Parthenon?

They smile and wave in step…

do they still believe in state
and society?

better (is it?)
than sitting here
watching the dust
and dirt
pushed into corners

as time rushes
stalls awake

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