[An unfolding flag. A squirming riot.]
An unfolding flag. A squirming riot. The cobbles
under our feet move of their own accord. We move
through lunatic shrines, keep our hands gripped around
our blackjacks. The old man wraps his head in doom
& tatter. His hands, stained brown, are crippled, the result
of an auditor’s ripper crusade. We are his escort, his
pantheon of ratbag defenders. The clouds empty themselves
of burden all over our clothes, our faces. The manholes unleash
their steam, fogging up the streets & its villainy. The sky is darker
by the instant, darker still, the blood trickling from old man’s nose.
We make a noise, a clattering, beat our sticks, ourselves against
dumpster lids, molded plastic. The old man lends voice: all our accounts
will be solved. He bites his split lips, rubs his fingers.
We stare at the burning bulbs in the streetlamps, watch
the moths try to get inside.
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