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The Prophet Splake
He casts his cool eye
and throws his voice
toward emptiness,
toward the clear oxygen
that hangs over a sheer cliff.
He comes from a town
where everyone, even tourists,
are familiar;
here you might find him
alone in an
empty auditorium of words.
He speaks to the vacant seats
in the sea of the
computer monitor; hates words like
computer monitor, pornography,
academics, reconcile.
He glides like a deer
up a rocky slope
to post a friend's poem
in the poetry tree-the earth
will turn under
the wind that blows through
the tree that holds new words,
the tree of letters, of knowledge;
on certain nights a moon
catches his profile just right,
gray beard, beret, a face the neighbor's wife
might come to, for the love it has left in it.
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