king david’s ghost

and down between the cracked

streets, the husk of hate and

what anger left and leaving now-

when the midday cools

and the heat-death

prophetic plague tires out

for desperate logic-

david stares from dusky

eyes. you see him

in newsprint

when it washes down

broken sinks when the

hotel lamps flicker and burn

like bee-lights made up

ancient by your bedside.

david. he follows

you through dangerous

places and says “god makes

us die in these places because

he loves them so much, he

loves us, he brings us

home to die”

(and someone

says hearing voices

means you have

been gone too

long)

you wait as dark

drips through the

wall the husky dry

night rattling down

streets railing tired

ghosts as if they had

ever been living. david

waits for you everywhere

you go

and you want to go home