beginning had always been white-slit
black-think, crevice here to please donate
dollars, perhaps drop sense, or identities free
to dark into an eternity
for uterus soils to raise once more.
this ground has been stamped before. now
the laundry of flags is grasping its colour, elephant
slates wash their green. they are circumventing
the apocalypse of the eleven-floor
forgive us, father,
for we know not what we have
dug the ground and found, this whiteness
splayed by movement – this arcing motion over
heads; sometimes it is difficult to see.
a decade and we are still ejecting paper expecting
flight – how do you expect to fight the flames you
fan yourself? never less,
in heat we will still
cursive; conceive; conjure;
we are the creators from creators. we hit the
to etch further
the whitewash with black tint,
those kamikaze men,
nosedive, still standing.