they are bombing the city,
wave upon wave of them,
night after night,
and so we are huddled
below together, trying to sleep,
mattresses, bodies everywhere
one man stays awake, sitting up,
wearing a creased raincoat,
sketching in a small book;
naked, his mother lies near him,
a gigantic big-breasted woman,
a huge symmetrical hole in her belly
it is impossible down here, a hothouse,
but we hear the rattling sounds,
harsher than thunder, so we are staying
till the wars are ended
till the trees begin to leaf out again
along the avenues,
till the pale man is young no more
the cold poles stand restored,
the glaciers, the ice caps
once again gleaming
like the flesh of prophets,
and the immense mother mended
for Mary my daughter,
Mary my sister