Except it’s always
After sundown here, the place ostensibly
Our own republic, where a hanging
Dew diffuses nimbus-like round the pale
Evening wraith we designate
To represent us.
Yet it is just a ghost,
A last vestigial heat that emanates from us,
A notional being possessed of things
To measure with, and a map to draw round us,
Whose last dispatch is this final affirmation.
That explains its eviscerated public voice,
Denying that the things we are – borders, laws,
Institutions, sub-atomic particles, the whole political
Universe – are merely approximate.
First published in Turbulence, issue 9