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.
