The Straits open and close
like a huge desert toad breathing,
mouth full of oil and mockery.
The Veep flies back and forth
like a monstrous mosquito which
would splatter blood (his and his
master’s) like those I slapped
on the convento wall all those years
ago in Florence.                          
                            The greedy goblin
clutches land, devours north            
and west, west where my friends live
in and around the City of David, where I
doffed habit, belt, sandals at the
checkpoint; where I watched a small boy
gape at questions from behind the glass
he could not comprehend, men with
guns arrayed above him—what anger
was born that day?                               
                                    No one’s ally beats
at the screen door to the land of sunflowers,
swatting drone after drone to what end? This
is our world (and so many other places
in Africa and maybe our streets)
where evil creatures emerge
from the green slime of the pool,
reflecting—what?