Stark, dank basements sheltered the boxes
where potatoes grew in darkness
slowly, shooting yellow tubular roots from mottled brown skin
waiting for winter’s shadows to lessen
For peace would take root
the conflicts echoes elided
a nightshade planted rather'n bodies
in readiness to grow outside the box
No one was a sentry for a thrice cocked crow
awoke before the meaning of dawn
broke the predawn’s early humming of a city
distant where the light was a sphere beneath the stars
A choreographed riot,
a Parthenon’s roof blown off with cannon shots
knockers on television camera lenses
let in to the nation’s rooms
The personal anarchy of anyone explaining
their one proprietary gestalt
to convince themselves of things
such as nation’s borders and tax cuts bring to dreams
A party without meaning yet noisome
roilsome convection currents bubble frothy cycles
socialism lost amid on-time deliveries and supplies
seeking transference of reason to spaghettified quantum loops.
https://suno.com/s/cFVUORx8bN2CJJ9u The poem as a song
