5 hands as fists
hit a steel drum
lying in the dirt
beside a trumpet glistenin'
gold, brap beating
seeking the ring of
the iron skeleton observatory
under the overpass

no one needs company
when the world is
the people's native dance

* * * * *

one sits in an acrylic orange sweater
no moments
no movements
still life
eyes closed, with circled
thumb and finger on her lotus
jean knees

she stretches, arrived
thru eternity, arms to the fore,
up to become a mime
from a grass knoll in the middle
and outside the universe,
under the overpass
of a highway in Quebec City

* * * * *

this is where everyone belongs

ignorant of the ivory glowing
Jesus and the Royal Bank logo
watching from above,
everyone's hands clashing with
only the air between
the cobblestone bricks
and the grey-metal guard rail
of the off-ramp

thousands in a dirt-floor refuge
under the overpass
dustsmoke rising from
a 20-foot phoenix of burning fence flame
to competition in the sky, helicopters
swatting thick night,
irrelevant

this is where every one belongs

rhythm clap and echo to the above
granite wall, on the edge of a cliff,
on rue St. Paul
where the glint of government gas masks
stand in black
not moving as they did
to kick the last man
that fled from them, eye-grating gas, and
bombs,
the last one sealed with a leather-tooth club and boot

this is where everyone belongs
under the overpass at night
with the embrace of each other,
touching and not
touching, and dancing a-fly
loose hopping rave
tambourine metal dance
non-stop drum of
street signs

this is where everyone belongs
as one

Greg Younger-Lewis can see just fine.