Sound advice is rare as rabbits on the moon.
Guilt is taking orders at the airport bar,
no one will die of thirst on this apocalyptic watch,
bank on it. Enough, there’s no such world.
Kamchatka clouds, horror movie clouds
sink their barged shadows to silhouette
the landmark towers, needling up
the warm Hiroshima sunset.
Tree canopy dims and quietens,
snowy procession led by flashlight.
Mendicants press flesh, soothe their
jittery clientele with tired words.
Take the gradual approach by sea
or choose the mountain pass,
sweeping all before, making safe
the present, guarding against the past,
worshipping the future’s necessary evil.
To snitch, to rat, to finger danger
milling the crowd.
Rise up startled,
open the club doors, watch the clamorous
world fall out, tumbling over and
righting itself to a balance just shy
of the crowd-controlling horses’ hooves,
the echoed slam of riot shields.
Today’s alarums less chic, today’s
headache brought to you by the false
modesty of a platoon of prefab students,
none of whose designs or models,
if ever realized, would stand a chance
against wind, sun, rain, rain, sun, wind.