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The lecture was on God not needing his creations,

The evening's trend to mauve, and all you have chosen

As we rub our eyes and look around with but a hazy

Frequency. The earth's in a bad way.

 

And still the doomed city is afloat.

Plants think up fresh leaves.

They are a choir, they are a song

That forces the buds open

In a violent garden.

The sun beats a brass gong and will not set:

A bellow of desire a residue of despair

And fire.

 

This is not the heaven we counted on, still so knotted to the blue world.

Praise Manhattan from a hundred and seven flights up.

(SGH)

Photo credit: Harvey Kirsch