flymouth people swarming
older than we are
"Are you coming?"
"No."
"Get off of me!"
Knock! knock! knock! fingers
No one covers those sewage holes
thin lightstreaks on crusty poles
In dark faces were blinking
Many, many disorders
Trucks, wheels, wheels, street lights
Not much sense my lips mention
your home I go
in life dieing, them spying
following the voice of the night-heron
I was being told
I could wheel & deal. Spinning
my hair into gold
horror floods the gaps of devastaion
here i was, there to be
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