Had this rain stopped
and the blood in the street not been washed off
the bus they painted green would have brightened our eyes
and no one would have been so simple as to become a vagabond like me
Like me who dismounted from Iran
everyone’s over here making announcements over there
by the BBC
and waiting
for the radio switched on in the bus to mount us
Like matchsticks
thrown higgledy piggledy in the box
some standing and some grown used to their seats
waiting on a Noah’s steer that won’t reach land
All carry a bomb on their head
but waiting for the next match to catch fire
like matches from Tabriz
or Isfahan (that is not half the world)
to call a halt to a driver who is not behind the wheel
London’s rain gives no respite
The bus is a box of matches sliding on a slippery street.
