What if the sound of a rushing wind blows you out of the water,
running back to that place you last called home,
fallen now, weeping again by the roadside?
What if the very thought of tongues of flame raises
blisters on the back of your neck,
raising Cain among your shattered nerves?
What if the advocate is a thin man in a shiny, nylon suit,
with bad breath and bad sucking teeth,
patting you nervously on the knee?
What if you are drunk on new wine
at nine in the morning,
or on old wine from the night before?
Then, she whispers, I will wait just beyond
the fall of the horizon, until, spent,
you find yourself in the cold, hard light of dawn,
brooding over the empty water.