No, no, not pleasant to look at in the day -
The red and grey brick buildings
In the night with their glassy lanterns
They could be caves, high-up
On the hillsides, fireside bones chattering
Chewing meat, flaying stories, crunching time underfoot
But in the day, they are relics
Of those leviathanic lizard:
Some dead, some not dead
The dead are hard to take in
You look at a window
And see the many eyes of the flies chewing and hollowing
The husk of the corpse, greedily looking at your body -
The feel of larvae formicating in your palms
The others are as bad, the hammering and roaring
Of construction, of renewal and overhaul, the jaws
Of iron pipe and steel girders falling and snapping so
Very close to your feet. It is enough to make you
Want to move to the country, but in the country
There is no meat, no danger, no poetry except for that
Which you take there. A man could go crazy, a woman,
Feral, though that’s no different; there’s not one of us
Who does not foam at the mouth. Look at the child suckling
The yellow shebert dynamite his mother bought.
And so, this life
Is one of acceptance, of racing, head-down through the streets
Hoping the red black hulks don't spot you or praying
The flies don't wriggle in, all life clambering, climbing
Until nightfall -
The time of feast and story for
The leftovers
