Big Apple Come-Down

Ghost-blonde, in green,

There, then not

In this Babel state-of-mind tower:

Brought in, carried away

By trader winds.

Is this how life goes by:

Vertical sections

Crumbling to dust

As a billion pilgrims

Walk by, not knowing

Their own moon

Is fast-falling?

Dawn’s Light

Hunters become devout pilgrims,
Travelling with deepwater- placid dedication.
Vultures as prophets soar.
Side by hot bodied side,
In cold ocean tide,
We measure our histories,
Play, or not,
Our courts and cards.
Dawn’s light will, anyway,
Cast us as rivals, losers or lovers.

If everything here seems upside down,
The sun too hot,
The days too long;
Somewhere else, have never a doubt,
It will be just right,
The rocks will be ice,
The children fed.