I’d not go out there now if I were you
– not unless you have a taste
for fire falling in flakes, for clouds of dust
that leave an acrid chalky residue
on wigs and epaulettes. If I were you
I’d be inclined to stay inside at least
until the ground had ceased
to shake, the roads to crack – unearthing
bad things we buried not that long ago.
We’ve all been out enough by now to know
it’s not the best of times to feign disinterest
now the pillars of the temple are askew,
now slates are flying, bridges burning
and the big cats have bust out of the zoo.
