open your hand
the souls of boys on tea plantations
a delicate flower
the souls of British boys on tea plantations
step back deeply
the souls of whiteboys on tea plantations
ready to float off
the souls of soyboys on tea plantations
Who died overseas, who died hot as leaves
steeping for the comfort drink of painted leisure
no weight on it at all
who died in another climate
on another parallel
keep it circular
who danced in no reserved monasteries
who witnessed no goddess bleeding
ready
who/what/where would you kill
why would you
kill
It whistles like a bird
but was not a bird
I was an economic migrant
a fine young man
of course my sister stayed at home
relax
I was asleep inside the steam
of your morning cup of char
let me sink back
be wise to spirals
I was tucked into the fragrance
of our monoculture
let me return