As I look on Canaan there are clocked out masons
of Babel caked in lime and self-satisfied in homes;
there are ascetics culling the wildlife who dip
their tongues into the bloody iron liquor of fecundity.
How will the sanctimonious be rewarded,
who flagellate themselves with whips of tongue
and surrender to open mouthed impulse
in the silence of domestic places?
And them who partake of the fish and the bread
but autocastrate their miracles of plenty with
a voice of learned deference to hunger
in the screaming wilderness before names?
As I look on Canaan it first looks so strange though
without a title or a pretext it really isn’t long
before parsing out the Canaanites and
the tourists is the least of my concerns.
My conductance here was surely spoken, but to
ignite the grasses I must wait for further word. Canaan
is a managed landscape, for sure, but I am
neither fully goat nor goatherd. I am a mouth of blood.