What is it that slumbers in the city?
Branching nerves that tense at every sound.
Child of the locked homes and the gritty
Platforms of the ranting underground.
Lungs that suck the whey fumes of the highstreet,
Arteries that clog up daily, seething.
If you put your ear to the concrete
Maybe you can hear the foetus breathing.
Who here knows the course that we are taking?
(When has history not surprised us yet?)
Where's the blueprint of this thing we're making?
Can we piece together the genetic
Fingerprint, that's guarded and enclosed
In every cell of which it is composed.