— ...How can we sing the LORD’s song
in a strange land?
Deckchair on penthouse patio
drink on terracotta, cigarette
butts rain fire on
the wasteland below;
perched on this obelisk
stars our jewelled ceiling
it’s easy believing we can
turn our backs on Gomorrah. But
in the evenings others —
dealers — hookers — junkies — bums
follow us home
ransack our sleep
loiter in doorways and back-alleys
in
our minds:
ash our tower is built on;
face of our salt-pillar shadow.
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