Lost in mist…
The charcoal avenues, the grey cars hissed
Like metal zombies, fated, running round;
And metal children, outrageously pissed,
Were yelling at ballgames in the dreamers’ playground.
Those paper parasites, gormless, grave —
The grief they gave me rots on iron shelves.
Essays at ease in paper-life sit saved,
Assured of sanctuary to their sad selves.
Raining on willows, silver rains on me,
The misty reader and the paper-child.
Dreaming the road to university
We rewrite roads the joyriders defiled.