For God While Sleeping

 Sleeping in fever, I am unfair
to know just who you are:
hung up like a pig on exhibit,
the delicate wrists,
the beard drooling blood and vinegar;
hooked to your own weight,
jolting toward death under your nameplate.


Everyone in this crowd needs a bath.

I am dressed in rags.

The mother wears blue.

You grind your teeth
and with each new breath
your jaws gape and your diaper sags.

I am not to blame
for all this.
 I do not know your name.


Skinny man, you are somebody's fault.

You ride on dark poles --
a wooden bird that a trader built
for some fool who felt
that he could make the flight.
 Now you roll
in your sleep, seasick
on your own breathing, poor old convict.

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