Everywhere I go, the same fucking thing,

pockets filling up with dirt, with tears,
with small, gray feathers of smoke,

crowds in the background murmuring
a familiar prayer, a famous name,

impatient for the century to at last begin,
or at least for this dry season to end,

and as I stare out across the page,
I wish I could remember a time

when shadows were merely shadows
and our skin was blue and gold

like the gorgeous raiment of sacred kings.

Howard Good