VII

where have I wandered?
what wayward route have I taken
out of the city?

stay off
the broken pathways
of my mind

the Romans never realized
they were laying roads to ruin
what a waste

I have always heard to not look back
but I stop to gape at the plague
heaped over the city
like a host of ethereal rats
black-furred angels bringing judgment
rustling through refuse

a hail of fleas
dropping yersina pestis
down the chimneys and the throats
of the citizenry

what a waste

I wonder where I'm wandering