I can’t ignore the lady
wailing on the pinnacle of stone
that rises like an obituary out of the ground,
declaring nothing useful, plagued
by a penitence too strong
even for God to deem worthy of forgiveness.
I can’t attend the beggar,
his failing aspirations to arise
out of the muck of his lot
and attain unto more of God’s grace.
I can’t decide between them:
the repulsive mistress of my heart,
or the canyon, gaping, of my ineffable soul,
the mire out of whose body
I was brought into being’s contention.
Now who do I follow?
My forgotten ancestry,
or the lust of a future
too blind to depart from the past?
Rustico, East Vancouver