Babylon

This city is destroyed each afternoon.
All day, the deluge hovers near
Presidio, until at five
It plunges down the Haight, its tongues as thick

As semen, swallowing Divisidero,
Polk, snaking round the wharf
And closing like a jaw on the
Financial district, crossing Market, seeping

Into stone and plaster till the Mission
Dims and drowns in milky twilight.
The citizens are not dismayed.
Though they may tremble in their beds at night

Rocked by carnal fear or lust or just
The San Andreas, prophets singing
Dies Irae in their ears,
Catastrophes both intimate and public,

Will not budge their civic faith. "Fallen,
Fallen is Babylon the Great!"
But what of that? All states are states
Of grace: wild, changing as the fog

That comes despite the best of days
And goes depite the night. Baptism
Or flames may do their best, but Babylon
The Great will rise again by noon.