Jesus got a raw deal
and Moses should’ve known better.

Buddha could’ve talked sweeter
and Joan might’ve arched
with more finesse.

I can’t tell the way
I can’t steal the light
I can’t hear the night.

Who will
anyway
now that we’ve found her.

All these pretty beads
of water
reflecting the various
shapes
a cactus
a stone
a Christmas wreath.

You know I love that shit
and I gobble it
with or without
the Pope’s sayso.

You know I follow
those cliffs
bayous
bellybuttons
ringlets
with or without
some kind of
something tight.

You know I kill it
every night
by myself
in the dark
without a spark
always without
and never with
nothing
you know
I do it.

BW/AMW