Muscle in on Cape Verde shoals

 

The myth of memory sweeps away canonical 

 

leaves

 

Pining for the place of dead roads

 

Placed the mouth piece over the ventilator sparks

 

Your horror face lying like a cantilevered arch

 

The sonic luxury of band saw and bird song

 

The point being the flux between enough or

 

none at all.

Brutal dub strike 

 

“Was it our fault?”