The moon a peach segment,
translucent.
The bodies pile up and
NGOs ask the question:
How many more need to die?
Necessity and death.
Do any need to die like this,
their bodies bruised
and crumpled sacks
coated in dust?
The evening light is so sharp
it feels as though
the silhouettes of church spires
might fall, and the city
pull apart in concertina,
the river alone recording
these dark shapes
reflected on its surface.
And the bodies pile up
laying together in concertina.
Enough to fill a stadium.
Enough to fill a stadium.
The moon waxing,
the dark is so sharp
you can feel the stars falling,
the past
poking holes in the depths
of all we don’t know.
And the bodies pile up
and the borders are broken
and statehood is given,
gifted, questioned, denied.
And you sit here
eating peach segments
out of season,
the taste so sharp
you can almost feel the world
being pulled apart.