TENT
Once we had a country and we thought it fair WH Auden
my spot is on the atlas
between the brown and green
where two contour lines
almost kiss
yet still is it coveted
my tattered tent
in this favela of sheds
its crowd of televisions
the subtle rift of borders
happens in the night
armoured workers hump rocks
shifting marker pegs and wires
I bury my finger nails gory with earth
but I am pulled
my screech of roots like a mandrake's
and I am pitiful
scrunched
on piles of litter
without a nest or hole
to burrow in
Flights, Issue Fourteen, November 2024
Flight of the dragonfly 