I journey through fractures –
the jolting disconnect
of head-down people
unseeing the sunrise.
Fallen frangipanis lie, an offering
to grimed concrete, and
the sacred ibis, hierophant,
wanders shamed in bin-bird city feathers
The painted voice in the subway
sings “Yaama…”* to the un-hearing stream
flowing by too fast,
shutting out the past and
hurrying into the stifling future.
The sign for party platters fronts
an empty shelf, and the accordion player
strikes up a merry waltz
but no-one is dancing.
Under their hasty feet
the fractures spread
until change will break
through as inevitably as the