The infinite is fatal to us
but we have to have it. So–
the pope flies to Egypt, with
a head full of words, fumbling
for a phrase to trap war
like an insect in amber.
Meeting El-Sisi, he preaches
gentleness and doubt,
tries, with his tongue,
to turn fire to rain, to plant
the infinite like a parasite in El-Sisi’s
brain. He’s up against a billion dollars,
he knows, and think tanks on three continents,
and grottos of crime in cathedrals
back home. Still, El-Sisi,
in a sharp blue suit, sits
smiling, the perfect host, having
killed his 1,000s, tortured
his 10,000s. Fire, he’s sure,
will not become rain.
