Psalm 88

I was the dust

Wanted to sleep, couldn’t, remained in
step and some outside observer would
never have guessed a dead pigeon on the edge
of the sidewalk, neck stretched and beak open as

if a sleeping Madonna undisturbed by the cars
or the feet that swept the dust across the body.

In the opened cloak, on the sandal

In time there are no farces only parables:
last night, woke to spirits bargaining. Over
souls. Over mine. Turned to my side to sleep, thought:
if demons cannot win it by day then surely

Shaken off, I was

by night. Woke fully. Thought:
faces rise up like waters around me.
Had sat on a rock, had seen the waves flung

like the dust from a shaken cloak.
Generations rise up like waves around me

The dust

thrown in a curse.