Our history began here.
We cut the deep wound you've crossed
to bleed barges into sleepy valley town.
Over here, an army nestled safely behind its cannon
and there, in that road crotched castle
lived a man who so loved
wealth and power and cocks
he built a pulpit for their deeds.
In this graveyard, choleric migrants rot,
humeri and ulnae yearning toward an unreached promised land.
Oh, we began here, close and true enough.

Here's a travel tip.
When you are done, when you've been satisfied,
take time from tiny death
to stand upon the High Level Bridge,
with Paradise at your back and the Escarpment
a protecting shawl wrapped loosely round your shoulders,
cast your gaze down blue Macassa Bay,
past ambition's stubby towers,
past the steaming mills,
to the slice we've knifed into the lake.
On a clear day, if you squint just so,
between the pillars of our greasy gateway
you can see the corruption of the entire scheming world beyond.