[Quiet Man Cometh]

Speaking of suffering
an illness of will,
someone told the Tree of Death
that its blossoms fell long ago,
tramped down in dead horse dung.

The Tree said, “I know.
Please take these prophets' dross from my boughs.
They are heavy, and they leak.
Their ichor drips all over lips, carefully
formed to sigh.

“And they sigh, precisely timed
to coincide with closing eyes
so that they never see the sun's pass
over their heads, and their dried carcass
of relevance;

“Rotted off from where artistic intentions hung
from second-hand spears, still sighing,
Still dripping, that low, perfected tone,
and even the vultures tire
of the waiting.”