The Storm




First there was a storm

of cops and batons,

streetsweeping with

menace with shotgun


but God was not in the storm


(brass and blue and wry

whisking out the rye

and brown and whiskey)


and then there was a hymn


of wind pushed up and down

the empty throats of lift

shafts in the in-

complete highrise


but God was not (him)

in the hymn


(their moan tuned on-

ly by chance—no-

one knows the math

to make this an act of God)


and then there were

people


fat crowds of fat tourists

craning their heads, crow-

ing delights

at this cathedral of man


and of course God was

not in the people


(who came only after the

storm cleaned the sidewalk

where they did shat their

flotsam and dropped their

jetsam)


and there was an all-

seeing eye around the

neck of each


(drawn to the storm like

worms to a rain,

like birds to worms)


a Leica eye, a Nikon

eye


but God was not (as

most people think)

in the panoptic Canon


then when the streets

were dark

and empty

there was (from the door-

way shadow,

where he'd watched all along)

a streetsweeper


who bristle whispered

tsk tsk

tsk tsk


and God was




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