Creek

 

So here we find ourselves:

In this nursery, this sanctuary,

Pissing flowers and tyres and shards of glass.

Here, our throne; strewn with bones and ash

Here, our crown of knives and rust

Here, our sceptre, hewn of spite and dirt.

Debris and de bruit.

So here we find ourselves:

Born of water, but chained to the land;

A memory of gills and fins,

Of the cold and quiet deep.

So here we find ourselves:

Consummate yet consumed;

Tossed in this tireless flow of air and dust,

Imagining our agency in this propulsion.

So here we find ourselves: wanting.