“More room,” creak the suburbs as they expand,
pulling their tarpaulin taut. Bollards tear and
out blossom hotels, kiosks, concrete ribs.
The cities expand, like so, with no break
until the cows are teetering on two feet,
left to graze in spray-white parking bays,
until “No room, no room!” cannot be gasped –
no room to gasp no more. Each inhale an opening
for another’s exhale. Lungs expand to conquer.
Now, tessellated by armpits, there’s no room.
Heads like cervic terrapins cry “No room!”, retreat!
choose a life in utero, placentas stacked like bathtowels,
like Russian dolls – and who has not looked at their
neighbours, envied peeling back the next man to
step in as into wellies and feel some room at last?
Cities expand like air sacs and by expanding fill
the football fields hung between electron and nucleus
and compress to one fleshy apple.
Only room then, when branches like bronchi
are pulled taut, downwards, by a species
condensed, inhaled into so many fleshy balls.