(Bethzatha)
Faces, half-cowled
seen then lost
where some soft street
curves away from sunny archways.
Here, in these five porticos
I feed on hope
in the rag-shadows
our hot smell of sick flesh hangs ripe,
the germ of every foul dark
comes to fruition.
Limbs jut out on thirsty stone
at unnatural angles.
From time to time that seems forever, angels
stir the waters; a plume rises
disturbs a small suffering world
this for a moment stands still
the crippled swarm are locked as statues
then, a sudden, sharp implacable rush
before me.
I could not heal in ascension
from waters, if I crawl from my crook
to be the first to plunge-
I would rise up to dry
with silt on my face.
