I am a thornbush in Lebanon,
sending to the cedar for marriage
while waiting for a wild beast to trample me.

“This word endures!” I burst out with a twice-shouted
(to offset the half-hearted)
cheer. “We greatly rejoice with joy inexpressible!”
(and as I proclaim this I think, unobtainable)

If all flesh is like grass,
and it’s glory, the flower
(the grass withering
and the flower falling away)–
how do I clean the stains from my knees
that wear holes in my jeans, and scrape scabs?

So I make moneybelts which do not wear out in my mind,
while leaving myself to the moths.
I am spending my days telling children
to give up belongings. And nights–
scheming to follow them close,
and gather their dead droppings for myself.
I’ve taken my lamp to meet you, sure;
but with no spare-oil flask.