Dancing in Kali Yuga
You say bread and salt greetings
to the morning, dull sun on
the damp flatpack flats of Dublin –
Remembering the trapse through
Javanese back fields, acting
pith helmet past,
Marching with
IMF retirees, teak furniture
executives: observed exotic creatures
From motorbike perches,
from cross-wise wooden windows
set over streams, between rice stalks.
How everything grand seemed greener,
eyes sharper, less bittered
by years after falling,
than now with rain in the teacup,
how things would have moved
so different, had it all been
leading back to this stuck-on
place, where trees bare bitter
fruit, chemical exports,
that soon drift like black fleet
sails, over all skies.
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