They have become no legend. Fifteen
winters after, no one any more
dreams of their pigeoning home-
ward in the same light cottons
they were driven out in, wings,
pushing hands, through the dumptruck bars.
But the Lost Tribes are no comparison.
What stones could time have possibly
thrown across the river Sambation
of our wide unrest, to defend
them from the alien host?
What Messiah raised up
to head their gay infant crusade
for our redemption?
Part of no fate, nothing at all to do
with our vacated faith, they have slid
down the drains of our memory
unclogged by myth. And this our
judgment, ever weighing relatives,
gravely nods yes: Screen
the polluting bodies of their screams
out. Nothing echoes in the sewer now.