january 29


they stood like parked cars
prison bars
dry cigars
tucked in lines to wait.
time washed its salted force
against them
but still they stood,
and stand they will
till the thudded click of right-time
sets its match to flux
that which sits settled
in its luxury,
then will the tyres squeal and smoke,
the bars bend and break.
they will paint their cheeks
and stamp the earth
into clods of black,
rippling like oil around their feet
as they run


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