Generation - poem

Grit in the air, a ball of static
that plays on the nerves.
Here it comes now, a smeared figure of eight,
it pours into colour, splitting

the horizon

The gloaming 4 p.m. presents itself
no power, yet an impending faraway power,
here, a dumb influence
which decrys these sensible words

that there are theories wytch talk about the size of the sky
see it the pupil, wytch bleeds to twice its size
such are the stellar, and cellular, subdivisions.

The thing that became fact
the iron word once strange and unreachable
now reproduced,
picking over the old bones of more dignified utterances.

The static net forms, a fishpond mirrors
depleted ruins.
The living gene packets of memory.