Crux

Here—

where clouds overhead

and crowds at your feet

thicken into an untimely

darkness—

you can’t tell

miracle from murder,

blessing from curse,

God from your enemy.

Here—

where vultures overhead

and priests at your feet

circle, waiting for a

body—

you can’t tell

mystery from mockery,

life from death,

wine from blood.

Here,

beams, bones,

paths, purposes,

swords and fingers

cross;

“X” marks the spot

where you hang,

and

all you know is

you are

here.