Like clockwork, we gather
in the great city.
Its remarkable motion and noise
a constant companion.
Hear the tooting horns!
Is that the traffic outside,
or something else…?

It’s quite warm under
the well-lit daises.
Under starched shirts
and tweed blazers.
But that’s the only heat
in these rooms.

The banter is breezy.
One could say…jocund,
lest the mood be soured.
No, no.
Sweat must not prick the collars
of these hallowed guests—
these kings and queens
who lord
over the principalities
of their own fervent
convictions.

Better shoes are warranted,
for this is really a dance,
is it not?
A fine choreography
of platitudes,
twirling
in the well-conditioned air.

But you wouldn’t yell.
Not here.
Even though, one could wager,
the most desperate desire
unspoken in these quiet and comfortable rooms
is to scream
and scream
and scream again.

Not so decorous, though,
is it?
No, that won’t do.
This is holy ground,
chancel and pulpit;
listen politely,
take the cracker,
and get the hell out.

Ah, but onto the street!
Where the Cassandras cast their doubts
and we drop our gaze.
Hurry past, now.
The next sermon
is three subway stops away
and we are running
so very
late.

…

Meanwhile,

in faraway lands,

where great rivers churn

outside of our imagining—

where the dramas that brought us here

have no audience but themselves,

keen observers shout

their terrible truths

across a vast

and friendless gulf.

And from up upon our lecterns,

their cries are swallowed,

mercifully,

by the din

of our ceaseless

and desperate

dancing.