The Nationalists

Delve deep, they dream, into artifice.

Leaking canisters of outrage,

the reflected torpor outside every garden shed.

Signs are written and held up

at intervals, proclaiming mute wisdoms:


They do not waste breath on the

one central chain that drags their feet

through disaster and tragedy:



Nor do they arrange words as

carefully, as they may their petunias

and geraniums, crowning their front lawns,

ears pressed listening for some change

beyond their high fences, sheltered and bordered.

Their homes behind fly the flag,

but across the sloping street they are smiled upon.

Cross-hatched, emblazoned, sinking slow

into a fiction without name or shape;

the palaces of the unchanged.


◄ Tomorrow's Freedom

Moral Arrow from Crooked Bow ►


No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message