This week in Kabul
the angel of death
rolled through the city
to cause distress,

to dig a space
blown by one man’s fuse,
on bloodied streets,
to pay God his dues:

This could be you,
in country or town,
this could be us
laid flat by God’s bomb.

But also consider
why we are targeted,
why we cower,
now fear-addicted.

Strapped by a promise,
bolt-weighted by God,

then queued into Heaven,
the gates a bit clogged.

An eye for an eye,
and all that shit:

Pray for the religious,
they stoke all of this.