Plans Deranged by Time: The Poetry of George Fetherling

The Dark Grid

The Dark Grid In the cracks of this white city there is another grid where applause and politics do not exist and politeness doesn’t matter You have seen me there and know I only know the back doors of restaurants their distinctive arrays of garbage little brick holes that are warm for those not confused by purpose a few spent aspirations perhaps but no purely theoretical contempt Personally I no longer care whether sleep is deserved or broken by men at grimy loading docks hurrying off into sunlight No one works for the government here however indirectly no one has received any mail in years though you may write me if you wish in care of the pigeons The Poetry of George Fetherling / 5 ...