John Stone (again)
Someone on the tallest spot in town
first looking up, then gazing down
would have seen
the gods get very angry, as my friend
the anthropologist would say
for clouds that looked as though they meant to stay
rumbled in from the west, a mottled blend
dark-blue and mean
announced by rain and wind if one were blind
and moving the shoppers down below to find
some cover--or open one, as domed and mute
mushroomed umbrellas gave salute
to this machine
the deadly wrath and power of the gods
each wanting his way--or hers--in the world below
and each of us here wanting only to know
what he or she had done; and what were the odds
that this obscene
wild message from afar
was meant for them
already the subjects of one hot star
already drowning in the water we mostly are.
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