A bridge, and rain,
and horses led to water.
The wreckage in the churchyard
smokes through the downpour,
rain glances from the eaves
high above your head,
runs chemical and blue
to overflow the damaged gutter.
The church itself is now an invalid
hotel. There is lightning and Shostakovich,
and dancing on the weekend.
Divide your parish
among rats and refugees,
equally starved, equally staring.
Your metaphysics grow obscene,
you’ve come to relish confrontation,
delight in the clash of alien cultures.
The foreigners are fat with victory,
flushed with currency and soap.
They barter for your sister,
pry artifacts from ancestral jaws,
packing picnics for a tour of Necropolis.
They’ve hastened from the barbarous future
to breathe the decomposing air,
to sketch a mother’s rented navel,
and weep over the loss of innocence
which they suppose
a dreadful sorry thing.
From Luxor to Detroit,
rain comes down.
From Catsgore to Brasilia,
not much news.