I only dig in crates when I have to,
but the mossy stench invigorates me
from eye to eye, as treason and graft do
in the souls of this nation that hates me:
The past emanates in portions, parcels
of lightness and dust that rinse the sea floor,
uncovering the rhythms that pierce cells,
enacting a violent osmotic pour:
The pages are wizened, the words callous
and see-through like a global glass ceiling;
our dreams from afar all smell of malice,
but to touch them is to throw up feeling:
Those were the rules that were laid down on me
by the ruler's metal edge in Swansea.
urbansonnets 