Xenophile

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The grain you've lusted
                             Bootsteps in the square
after, the moon a water
                              and it's suddenly plain
in its useless sheen,
                                why weather chooses
is not so much gold
                            certain men to preserve
as it is indigestible
                                in statue over others,
and what you longed for
                            but the whole state reels
all along was home—
                                       at the word bomb
omnipresent, shifting
                               and those who arrived
with each new custom
                                 for comfort and song
offered by the world
                               find chain on the gate,
as your flailing hands
                                  and those who sailed
slide over all of it,
                                    hoping for luck find
let it drop beneath
                                         their city souls in
like a veil unending.
                            the thick of the meadow.