By GRAHAM PASTEUR, CONTRIBUTOR
The careening motors of youth overheated,
the aged assembled
in muddled halls. “I have been young,
I’ve been young and I’ve
had my motor running
and I’ve flipped cars and spilt
wine on my mother’s upholstery.”
Assembled, the aged and the
overheating youth. Gathered
on the crest of a mound of compost,
The culmination of diversity.
“I have been young, and
I have felt my motor running and
I have felt the hinges, well-oiled,
traipse the fields, the streets
the sun-baked monoliths.
I have piled into vans
and had pictures
taken before landmarks
only to grow bored.”
Only to overheat and fall prey
to pragmatism and the smoothing
of the cortex.