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25 January 2014


Like wrinkles in a lifted face,
each sidewalk crack betrays
the grand design of urban
masterminds, and plays
against their perpendiculars,
poking fun at angles. Right
or wrong, I laugh along
(from safely round the corner),
while sifting meaning from
the ground and bounding mortar.

  When this earth by discreet
  shifts beneath concrete is
  revealed, a hidden language
  is heard, essential knowledge
  uncovered—every fracture
  an ancient pattern, each fissure
  apocalyptic, and every rift
  a tattle on the planet
  like a fingerprint
  escaped the glove
  the burglar wore to hide it.

The signs are the earth is still
beneath us, and we, with our
pretty lines and grids, have hidden
little of our gritted history,
or of the groaning future
we thought had passed us by.