Beneath the asphalt
The heat was moaning like a dog
and through the full, tall window sunlight
poured onto my Atlas of the World.
I could find Appelscha and India,
America, New York and Wolvega
and by the red square dot stood Stork.
The world, we were informed, was round –
and down, straight down beneath our class
in the protection of the day
New Zealand lay, where it was night.
That afternoon a zebra crossing was
the place I stopped and read the asphalt’s cracks.
And underneath it’s dark, I thought,
and saw two fishermen peer by a lamp.
The moon lit up an open safe.
A looter buried all his swag .
Somewhere a pallid butcher drifted
in his blood out of the shop.
What did I know of all night’s shady scenes
when you were penniless and without friends?
I looked up once again – for all I knew
for me alone the sun held sway,
born in a village time could not subdue
in the infinity of May.