When I look at identical rows of flimsy houses,
At headlines slumped over men asleep on market st.
Being a marxist means you have to believe
Things won’t always be the same.
That streets flow into rivers.
That the Bank of America is turning into sand.
That women walk out of the shadows
Into themselves.

Last night I dreamt that every open space was owned, built up.
You put your foot in that soft stretch of grass, and when
You turn around, the ground’s shaped bare, ready
For concrete to stop it breathing.

It’s like being sick all the time, I think, coming home from work,
Sick in that low-grade continuous way that makes you forget
What it’s like to feel well. We have never in our lives known
What it is to be well.

What if I were coming home, I think,
From doing work that I loved and that was for us all, what
if I looked at the houses and the air and the streets, knowing
They were in accord, not set against us, what if we knew the powers
Of this country moved to provide for us and for all people -
How would that be - how would we feel and think
And what would we create?