Underneath plaster skies I wait for you
Beating against the solid horizon.
I scry in toilet bowels so wet and blue
For a realness that my soul relies on.
I am cleansed by the warm rain in a box.
I am freed by a thousand micro-slaves.
I am set apart by unholy locks
From the pain, the cold and even the grave.
Have I lost you in the electric earth;
In the disinfected world I have made?
Do you dwell in a wild sow’s afterbirth
Or the pond scum in which frogs egg’s are laid?
Or are you omnipresent, like they said
And it is not you, but me, who is dead?
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