If I were a Hittite lieutenant of cavalry
I’d pay you elaborate formal compliments
in execrable French
I’d click my heels and
bow and my elegant
dress uniform would be gleaming with
Tyrian purple
I’d visit the shrine
before the service
watch you preparing
Gomer
Ashtoreth
but all I can do
as the prophet Hosea
is call to you and tell you
call to you and tell you
that your eyes so dark I can’t see the pupils
are the waste light that glimmers
in the day that is coming
and I’m just the voice of one shouting at traffic
daughter of Diblaim
I’ll not make you happy
yet I’ve seen the taxis blown through the streets
the way they fly
in the grand cities
yes sometimes I dream of the grand cities
and the sky above them
oily
and splintered