Three Poems – Conor Harris

1: Movement 

germ

the new battlecry is /break/ 
up /break/ dirt /break/ pressure

the ceiling is not see-through
it is rotting wood and green dyed cotton

and it is cracking

push

crowd /break/ your city-slums 
set fire to the road maps /break/
burn the intersection

where hate-harvested mephitic
doubt is sprinkled in potting soil
and nobody notices the screaming

the silent roiling earth