Odyssey of the Fly, Poetry
Amsterdam, 2012
We are all eighteen,
Or around eighteen.
We’re doing what we can,
What we’re supposed to,
Feeling the red lights
And the green mist
Extending a word
A word or two
To our surroundings.
It doesn’t seem to work
But we’re all assured
By the rambling uncertainty
Of these snaking roads.
 

 

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