Just as dead flies cause
the apothecary's ointment
to send forth a stink,
so too this sick that I have left
like seven abominations
on the sidewalk outside a bar
I do not recognize is the wet
filth of my spirit. And if
the talebearer's words are wounds
that go down into the inner belly,
so they come back up
as brutish prophecy:
all life is vanity and vexation.
All life is the prolongment
of our hours in the shadows.

So when the cab driver
asks for an address I can't
bring my tongue to speak
anything other than hers:
the one my friends insist
eats then wipes her mouth
as the adulteress
yet proclaims she does no
wickedness, the one
who brings up her own wet vomit
of a life as the broken spirit
that dries the bones.
Yet I can think only
of the wine kisses
from her mouth
and what it would be like
to sit again beneath
her shadows, the fig tree
putting forth green figs
and the spoil of the vines
and my north wind awakening
and overcoming me like another needle
in the vein, until I step again
out of the wilderness
as God's judgment
over every secret thing,
whether it be good or evil
or both.