Though we are fallen, we were angels too,
the swift descent not without blessing
among the grey estates.
And we soared,
above vacant building sites, waste dockland
then the halt:
blood has made us human after all,
and we have grown old–
who among our age, sheltering in doorways,
having smelled the evening rain,
and hearing shouts across the playing fields,
the cries of crucifixion,
haven’t wanted to be a part of it again?
But now the shades are down in all our houses bored women wait for our return from the dog track
and the days are without number
so that we too are seduced by uselessness.
It is written:
Jesus is among us, they whisper in the black taxis,
he hides in Clonard, a gun under his pillow.