Blackbirds falling
like wet dreams or dry tears,
or spittle from the lips
of a thirsty God
thirsting for his bloody Mary.

And in all this, where am I?
Or you? Or the prophets,
for that matter?

Where are we who see not,
hear not, feel not,
except the bump of little things?

Little things that bump against the night,
that bump against us from behind.

Have we gone with them into their good night?
Into the mansion of many rooms
their father once prepared for us?

Too many questions.
Too many answers ungiven.

So gently we go into that goodnight
in search of questions for our answers,
in search of Balaam’s ass
and a feather for our hat.

We go.
In search of 

even that.


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