In this village of minions-
we seal our thoughts away,
trying to be something we aren't-
how despicable you say.
the white rat that is larger than life
clamping down on the fragile roses,
to find weed that glows the mind
and burns-0 the old buildings that must die.
the red snake sleazily gone by,
into the pub where drinks are unpaid-
not at least when coins are dispensed
without the presence of conscience.
the roads that wind together to form
a blockade against leisure time,
the broken phrases teachers use
when the complete would do much less.
the turban bandits that came from
healers,the chief vanguards of slavery,
history's many white bones and ash-
in some river they pass under us,
the dying nights when days are lived
too full,the dropped eyes that watches
the shadow instead of the man-
the water whose reflection is us.
the branch of a tree in the city
will replace that little thing again-
we learn to look at big pictures;for they lie better.