Listen to the madman

Why this wobbly weakness for prophets?

For pale persons in camelhair overcoats

who love to eat locusts and wild honey?

For dry creatures who like the silence of

the desert even more than the company

of their best friends. Who listens to their

message? Their words drier than rocks,

their warnings bleaker than the skeleton

of the stray camel? After all, life beyond

the horizon just goes on. Valiant, various,

valuable. The man of God. The sand slips

through his fingers. Raw vultures eclipse

the sun. The prophet writes with his last

bit of ink on the last sheet of parchment:

'When no one explains what hell is, how

will we ever know what heaven shall be?'