JOHN THE BAPTIST IN CHRYSALIS

A desert vortex, marrow.
Swirling wind. Night chill.
Stars appear as irradiated
Bone chips of small children.
The wind carries their cries,
Brittle as locust wings.
I've had my fill of manna.
There is no wild honey left.

Now is always alone.
On this lip of the universe,
It is only me and memory.
And a calling, a howling
Like deaf's constant hum.

I am alive but must leave.
Must shout out, come out.

HEROD ON "IN CHRYSALIS"

His voice is like desert wind,
The raw cough of a crow.
I am content to sit
behind this arras
and monitor his madness-
amusement is hard purchase lately.
I am so bored with usual pleasure.

My body cringes at the mere mention
Of yet another physical delight.
I need a new spark, a jolt
That bypasses flesh, drills straight through bone.