Meera Atkinson
On concrete their paws, their slither green gone
our urban their habitat lost. As you and I sit doing business
at a cafe, they fall under wheels of cars, jump through
windows into our homes, fly over our heads and disappear,
returning as installations; sheep of chains (what a metaphor),
crow canopy, whales on walls and in air,
elephant
topiary
lane.
And there, above the store, flight over rooftops
of swooping loss, swooping loss, and elsewhere
the sculptured head of a war horse stands as monument
to the endless suck
into our madness
into our doom
into our wound.
On concrete their paws, their slither green gone
our urban their habitat lost. As you and I sit doing business
at a cafe, they fall under wheels of cars, jump through
windows into our homes, fly over our heads and disappear,
returning as installations; sheep of chains (what a metaphor),
crow canopy, whales on walls and in air,
elephant
topiary
lane.
And there, above the store, flight over rooftops
of swooping loss, swooping loss, and elsewhere
the sculptured head of a war horse stands as monument
to the endless suck
into our madness
into our doom
into our wound.
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