Like books. We’re stacked one on top of another
Each with a story we’ve been meaning to read
But just haven’t the time.
Three thousand bodies carried by concrete
that hum to the music of its giant flute
that hum to the music of its giant flute
And along with birds wings
Dogs barking
Zionists
And spinning rubber across the bloodstained spine
of Slovo.
I don’t know if it’s going to rain today
But the patter of small feet trickling down the staircase
Tells me that everything will grow despite.
Its purple across Joburg.
My words tremble with the thought of year-end already.
But I can’t feel it.
Because my body hovers -
Somewhere between the sky and its South African ground
So I open the window and try connect.
Of all the apartments I see, I wonder
If we really are
That far apart.