when you imagine
fixity
and steadfastness
in your staid British liberalism
and what it means to be
a man
I think you
see castle walls
like moss-grown stone from ages past
yes, you peer dreamily—
love sick teen girlish with pink toe nails wagging in the wind of the suburban ceiling fan—
at the roseate days by gone
and perceive
an edifice
of culture
tradition
steady pillars upon which to stand
to build
to be

But
culture will never be color fast
no matter how many times you try to wash it—
in the hot water cycle
with the harsh detergent that promises on its label to get the impurities out—
it’ll just keep bleeding
no, in fact
it’s a sheet on the line
the shape of things
transitory

and
that thing we call
the past is never
really what was
not solid
never the monument you admire
it’s always a mirage
and through the wavy refractive shimmer
we always see
just what we
hoped to