pm poetry

That country where it is always scorching, bright as high noon.

That country where the hills are concrete and the lakes waste lagoons. 

Where days yawn on, defying the clock. 

Where night is light-drenched and each dawn exhaust-fogged.

That country, composed in the main of high-rises, townhomes, shoebox flats, droning roads, and lurid screens swallowing long shadows.

That country whose people are summer people, thinking only abundant thoughts.

Whose people passing midday on the empty walks sound like flame.