Above  all this discolouration
and the general gloom
of its citizens,
see the clouds part, make way
for a gleam of gold
a beam  of benison
on the backs of our heads
as we face
the other way -
the streets are busy
this lunch-hour noon.

Such  a gleam
makes  for God-thoughts
that do not
penetrate such dumb
dead  behaviour -
we  have no rigour
to clarify such light,
too narrow-minded,  too slight,
we  barely balance on our thin feet,
sharp hearts doing deeds undeserving
of applause, of the life-as-gift
given to be given back -
the day's transaction
we  subtract from one another,

Our  unknowing  is our lie:
Achilles' heels
of high compassion's aim,
the failed arrow,
disdain that makes our days
a mere  consenting arrogance -
O  kingdom  of the blind
that treats the wise like fools.
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