How poor are the poor?
Seek you the truth or brooding soul?
How illegitimate are the poor?
How beautiful, how profane?
What do you know of the colour
Of disequilibrium? Vagrant like
Fragrance in a whirlwind.
Beauty as proposition must wrap
Gaunt bones in velvet
Green like breathing rain. But
The colour of solidarity.
Is brown – make of it
What you will. Lumpen
Litanies in mendicant bowls
Or mushroom homes, nomadic spores..
For every hut you bring down
Another unfurls. The poor
Shall resurrect. From the depths
Of despair, music listens.
The soul flares and moves on,
The way of all inheritance.
