These men come from different languages.
Open ranges and tangled containers.
Cambridge, Bridge of Sighs. It won’t budge.
The strange sameness, these dark edges.
Eating bangers and mash, they sing and engage
fake managers, make an entourage of
profane things. Their pangs hang and twist
like a mangled train hanging off a rainy ridge,
wrangled cane sludge. Pen a harrangue. Damn.
It’s encouraging, the same old squid’s ink.
These men of different languages.