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