Immigrants

When a young boy’s hand grows Hanuman
In his battle armor
Magnificent, victorious, fierce, bent on destruction
And asurs flee the pale space of the cheap paper
I hear the thunder of leathery wings
Of the flying monkeys
Over the darkening cityscape,
Its many fractured reflections drowning like shiny spears of light
In the black well of the Elliot bay
Little Dorothy
Lost in a strange land