And when sleep
has been detained
at some unnamed checkpoint
many miles, many years
from Here and Now,
my gaze scrambles over fractured word
broken taste of chocolate
and coffee that wants to recover
its bean-form,
I, mendicant,
am at your doorstep.
just standing outside
carrying nothing
but the bruise
of contested histories
and the unkempt hair
of stories I've archived.
Poor.
[from the collection 'The Underside of Silence', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2008]
poor, alright.
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