The Morning of the Hurricanes Part 2

Written by: Terry O'Leary

 Continued from Part 1 

The Beggars, neath the balustrades,
stop chiding Children, Chambermaids, 
for darning socks with broken blades,
            as screams in dreams redouble.

Reweaving webs with endless threads,
crocheting hats to hide their heads,
they have no coats, they have no beds,
            their faces, full of rubble.

Yet something else will entertain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with pink champagnes
            dissolve in  purple bubbles.

The White-Robed Maiden empties trash,
and fumbles with an untied sash,
– her virgin urn’s awash in ash –
            she’s pacing in the Palace.

Her hopes converge in coffee spoons
(her memories adrift in dunes),
yet still she smiles with teeth like prunes,
            and lips of painted callus.

And long before the midnight drains
– the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains –
the waters of the Hurricanes
            will fill her empty chalice.

The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
            the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)

is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and his Four-Inch Queens,
pick up the shards and smithereens
            of minutes lost or stolen.

They stumble through the old domains,
but cannot stop the Hurricanes –
the fountain weeps, the mountain wanes, 
            the waves just keep on rollin’.

The Crowds arrayed in jewels, in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails –
the vacuum in their eyeballs pales
            with plastic flame that sputters.

They’re sleeping there because they must,
their eyelids cling like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust,
            behind the bolted shutters.

They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
            and overflow the gutters.