Erase me slowly— with great care— scrub each fold of skin with warm, unscented water rinse clean your acid septal wall.
Habbakuk moans on the asphalt seam of grass. And weeps for a vision that has long since disappeared.
Above him soars two vultures, licking their calcified beaks, leering, longing for his sores.
A prophet, visionless, has no home.
Water running off the rock, pencil shavings christen a new blank page, bone picked carrion-clean.
You sing no, cold, stubborn prolegomenon to Hallelujah.
But sun's song breaches, rays snap leaves into a burning bush of Yes.
Great lengths she's gone to reach you, great patience summoned up to wait for you on the seashore line of grass.
Prophecy's not science, but an art of faith and flaming coal, sun-chalked visions, flickering, just beyond blurred sight.