Industry in Morning

Dedicated to William Blake

The sky’s a pagan green this morning,
Witless, overcast and bland,
A drawn and sober death,
Feckless as a drunken whorer.

Horror on the slanted streets,
Where early risers tumble
Into flows of asphalt and silt,
The glow above pretends a light,
Unmerciful, and cold as guilt.

What day was ever such as this?
Does the smoke of industry
(A rising, silent locust swarm)
Presage the age of pestilence
And misery?

Their hands they warm
Over towering fires unfulfilled,
While tenements of souls are chilled.

And all we feared inside the night
Shows true in morning’s biased light.