For could you really be in heaven 
knowing your neighbour suffers in hell? 
Wouldn't that heaven be blighted, 
sham as a rubber bell?

To left-overs of left-overs of São Paulo
in make-shift shelters, corrugated iron.
Over the way the slavery goes on
in utmost luxury, in plain sight;
sore eyes look both ways between railings.
In the vigorous turmoil of the present, writhing,
tearing itself apart to avoid becoming
another sepia and defenceless snapshot 
added to that stone cold collection beyond help.

In the infernal art of cheating
a great part is played by keeping 
a straight face as though nothing is happening
but insincerity is corrosive to the soul
the facade without foundation is bound to fall.
The attempted disregard
-one human being to another-
of obvious pain.
That cruise has foundered here
in hot tubs on balconies
they must claim to be blind
but later, always now,
in long evaded mirrors
must admit all they see.