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Poet-Today | Fiona Lovatt

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He. Flies Away This is the reality when the dust has blown across the morning streets and traffic passes, horning, that he lies against the wall. His hand cups his cheek. His legs are tucked up in the curl of sunnah sleep. The other hand, resting        on his hip, in the sun. Behind the headlines. he smiles, in this, his cold, and quiet death. A boy, on interlocking pavement, sixty days before elections. He, with that smile and that blessed posture, flies away. Other Dreams In the basement of the high-rise in a space big enough for a thousand prisoners where no prisoners are ever held save for the prisoners of wealth the slaves of brand and style Water flows from all the showers and sinks. The rivers of grey water sing like rivers in pipes that dog leg down, across lacing the lyrics of suds and soap falling with gravity's certain laws out to the sea. In the basement of this high-rise one listens for birds that d