Plasticland

1 February 2018

At the edge of the caryard
the bunting in
cloudless
air

framed by two poles
triangular flags
clap in the
wind

lift,
flutter,
clap again:

petro-chemical colours
the retina
loves

the shape, feel and
hue of our
times

styrofoam grains
in our salt and
blood

Hard pebbles of plastic
churn in the guts
of seabirds

a million waves
from
here.

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