Fragmented Voices

I can’t begin the narrative

or finish the story

            The color of the sky

the wind blowing

            The angry greying towers

in dusk and winter

            The streets full of potholes

or the potholes full of lamented lines

of yellow and white

            that fill this page as I type:

                                                            Fragmented voices

                                                            singing their songs

                                                            in unison

            We r like

kids like babies like

            beings in another time,

another place;

            dystopian or u-T-o-p- ian

etched against bodies plastered against bodies

framed as polaroids
                                                                               

it is futile of me

to resist the urge

of diaspora.