grave ruin (pile of stones, a relic)
the city opens up in front of me as I stand on the steps of the building
where I’ve been sitting
smoked my first cigarette of the day and had breakfast
shouted
recited poems written with blood
they pass me on their way in
there’s commotion, leather shoes, big windows
hectic glances, furrowed brows and a sense of self-worth
people full of themselves
yes, I do know
your reality, your truth
in this house, realities are reduced to numbers
theoretical talk
concepts abstract enough
to maintain distance
so you wouldn’t have to face it
look up at the hard worn benches of the gallery
not one of us has spoken within those walls
not one of us has been given space
to live, to be, to breathe
this place was built by the hard hands of colonialists
the cold stone walls repeat history
like a theater stage repeats the same patterns
until the last breath of post-capitalist society