untitled

In Scotland, sea-side villages
full of fishermen and miserable seal-brides.
Here, were-ducks snooze
in insurance office gardens where once
there were gardeners trimming hedges
picking up
all the coffee-break butts.

In South Korea, entire days yellowed
by sand lifted from the Gobi by wind and wind and wind
and wind and dropped
on millions. Here, buses blow by,
creating curb-side simoons,
gritty instants.

In Brazil, exotics destined
for cages and corners of living rooms.
Here, rusted wrought iron full of bird
and then empty, each one a perfect mimic
of treed plastic bags
insistent ringtones
and smouldering dumpsters.

* * *

This is such a uncooperative fragment. But it's all I wrote this week. So it'll have to do...