Y-G Encampment

The walls are made of never-
where, a clear resilient sand
heavy in the air, which picks
at our faces. We were boys
once when we could see age.

If we had fingers, we’d point
in the direction of modernity.
If modernity looked like a city,
we would see it the distance.
Once we were boys, we said.

There’s a mad something in
the walls we cannot see. And
if we choose not to see walls
the city suddenly explodes
a hundred colours we’ve never
seen & we’ll never see again.

Sometimes we hear in riddles
language and sometimes we
don’t. The camp is wall-tight.
We are tight against walls.
We cut. We are cut. Grated
against sand and into sand.

Walls are our only modernity.

(©2016 C.M. Ledin)

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