raw November

strange in this raw November to see
pretty women wielding transparent
plastic umbrellas, laughing as though
this were some spring rain, and thrusting
forth an inordinate amount of cleavage,
inordinate considering the season

on the Friday bus ride to City Line
the sun gleams on whited sepulchres,
bone-bleached steeples in the cemetery
thrusting through denuded trees, and the
turbaned swami, a regular on this route,
explains "The Evolution of God" in an outrageous
accent, babu English, to an entranced
old woman, always the same