BY MATTHEW HARDY
I saw three black men in white
overalls painting a wall new yellow.
They had helmets on – building the immortal
kingdom is dangerous. Yet there they were
standing wryly on the roof, somehow still
awry and aloof. Somehow distinct and separate.
Somehow other and apart. Somehow resisting
a monstrous comprehension, lost and unaccounted for
by the vastness of a thing that, from the bottom,
looks burnt grey and in need of some paint
to help us believe in our evil again.