Between Westminster and sunstruck St. Paul’s
The desert has entered the flea’s belly.
Like shut—eyed half—submerged Nile bulls
The buildings tremble with breath.
The mirage of river is so real
Bodies drift in it, and human rubbish.
The main thing is the silence.
There are no charts for the silence.
Men can’t penetrate it. Till sundown
Releases its leopard
Over the roofs, and women are suddenly
Everywhere, and the walker’s bones
Melt in the coughing of great cats.

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Gregory Poggar

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