Under a strange rainbow,
Rows,
Rows,
Of ghosts filing past
Trying to escape from the town,
Like ants from a broken nest
Filling the streets;
Hands hanging
Listlessly
Inch
By inch
A procession of animals,
That once were men.
A slow current threads its way
Through the space filled
With hot blast and strange odour
With no sky and no earth,
Into the river's seven
    separate branches
Drifting without end
Bloated and flayed
Bodies scrape
    against islets
In the estuary.