New uses of a ladder, reaching
from Port Hills to Baroque dome.
Figures climbing back and forth in panic
to escape the blazing cattle and hedge-bursts.

Upstairs in Carlton Mill we see helicopters
bucketing the suburb with confetti,
whirling and chopping like fingers across
a giant mother-of-pearl accordian

You rush to the Cathedral
to check for cloud formations,
(behind the pulpit, under the priest's hands)
between Psalms fifty-five and six

Your smile is a falling barometer,
teeth clicking against beads that count off
like casualties. I know of no adequate response
save indecision, a saving grace

when the forecast is for retribution
and penance the familiar jig I dance
barefoot across floorboards creaking
like corrugated iron in the heat.