Magi
Three gifts day, so where are wise guys?
Far away in the Levant, gassed,
Scourged, headless – left for dead.
As for us damned refugees,
Godforsaken orphans
of storms, beast housed: Waiters.
Modest chrome silver drooped lamp,
a huge, grey gym ball and the rest
of the detritus of dead Yule:
dead skin flakes, crumb strewn, smoke dust
coats the mats, the bedding, and
wheelchairs – a seat where mites scoff
Then explode, overfull on the
rich pickings. Intangibly sensed
accummulated filth, fired by
the chill draught of blasting wind
Here a dog ventures out into
the dark aftermath of the
nights storm and the place blows-in…
Eusebio is extinct, died off yesterday.
Sidelight set on sill. Time is a herb.
Grimbeau 