(from the moon series)
carried on their backs through the streets.
Smoke leads the way and people cheer
for the weight of a god that died long ago.
While the waves feign apathy and the cliffs sit,
monked, watching the pity carried and led by police.
Bells ring for the litter by the curb, the children drink
in ancient plazas, burn the hours of the night,
and the next Picasso is born
but doesn't get a chance to hold a paint brush
for the giant wooden cross
shaped moon hanging over his head.
No comments:
Post a Comment