they dare not touch
the gleaming windows
of the madam’s big car
the sluggish movement of traffic
a window to grant an audience
they dare not touch
the gleaming windows
but their eyes
their eyes stick onto the glass
like a banner that shouts
‘we are the view’
what did you think you’d see
when you made your way
across the ocean to this land?
we are no lush mountains
we are no cultural ornaments
you’d like to buy at the market
we are the view
we are the image that you’ll forget
as soon as you lay your table
at home, that you’ve made in our home
and you’ll forget the view
of us, the posters, not postcards
with dry tongues and dead eyes
empty bellies
rumbling and begging
hands outstretched, palms brittle
we are the view
we are the dearth, we are the death
“this dirty land”, your blue eyes say
The Book Neighbourhood 