The spectacle of rain hard earned by vulgar nobodies
Makes for unceasingly hollow citizens-
Comfortless and on excursions from heaven.
(Don’t you see, your home is full of artillery of the dead?)
The progress of the week is deafening
The roaring trade of the poor is left
To the memory of the recently gone.
The order of night is maintained
And the angry day withdraws its gratitude,
Leaving its thunder to the sisters of the supernatural.
We are lent by lightning and muffled dreams
And so far from home.