Following the usual pattern
everything goes from bad to worse.
That’s how it is: in the marketplace of the air
how much does an angel’s pen
trade for,
how much for mercury, the caustic soda
they use to bury rivers.

The earth trembles at a quarter
to seven, fifteen minutes
before the boss
gives a thin smile to his employee
and begins to go mad of boredom
on the blocked freeway
where the moon flashes briefly, stunned
by the evil consequences
of its rockbottom salary.

What will the industrialists say
with starch on their coat-flaps
when the telephones go mad at midnight
because, with one voice, grapes
have turned to stone
on the vines of the world
and the activities on the stock exchange
have become stardust.