FLEET WEEK

A last scuff of slippers is heard
Crossing the blue tiles in the night, and then
At last the earth is silent.
Well, we must have said something.
From the cave’s lip at the edge of the valley
A creek begins to flow again into the corn.
The cave, after thousands of years,
Draws a deep breath and exhales in a long cool breeze
Its sweet perfume of moss and bones.

Finally the whole of the earth
Has ceased to remember the LORD.
As a parting shot, the retiring deity swats the tourists off the volcano
In a spectacular spray of bicycles.

That makes the papers. But overall we're glad.
This is the day our ancestors dreamed about.
We can walk without fear through the city.
The pointed remarks of the penis
Are repeated openly and with gusto.
Something to brag about, it is widely supposed.
Tonight we will sleep safely drunk
Under the walls made of flowers
And wake up to a happy breakfast in the public square.

We too  are proud of our crowded harbor
Where the fish-jawed mouths of alien ships,
Laden as fat bass,
Have come to visit us in our time from a great distance,
Lapping up the rancid butter
Of ocean’s cold claws, here to show us a new day.

Tomorrow the sailors will walk through the town,
The new arrivals, pleasantly smiling.
Marked with a strange but nubile smell
Resting, available, in the public gardens,
A song from ELSEWHERE
Pinned in their mouths like a note.