To wish it could be rewound instead of roaring stallion toward a slight
bellwether wonder of obscure stars or cliffside holes:
take your place & like it. But this stuff—what’s
said long before the event—matters little once you pin up some
messiah, creating the event itself.
Old enough to know that what’s written down might come true,
in wilderness comes knocking at the door
& asking for honey or money or some warm place
to have a baby in the dead of desert census. So write it down & keep
Because you might have to tell your side before they tell it for you.
Turns moths sheckled
in a palm, turns a tree-limbed human metronome.
Never stopped to ask what it would make. So stupid
to beg the brokers as temples empty & zealots scatter through the city,
turning up your words.
Front page image by Nick Ares.