O Oriens

O morning star, east rising—splendorous eternal light and sun of justice;
come, and shine among those who sit waiting in darkness, in the shadows of death
— “O Oriens,” Vesper 5 of the O Antiphons

O, when the sun crowns and births,
     when the potshot
          lights, torn through
the east, flood the black earth:
     passing through fenced lots,
          gazing on open sores;
turning over wearied thoughts
     and knocking on locked doors
          while the eyes of men—
sons of Man—remain
     closed,
          like a fist,
or a grasp—so desperate—
     you drown,
          we all drown—
in our own throats, enthralled—pelagic,
manic and churning—the rage
     of the Trojan prophet; your precious parrot’s
          fresh and precious white waste—
may I feed the flies?
     cried the mottled jester, aggrieved
          and underemployed—
decapitated—
     with gusto, as it were—
          in the off hours,
any afternoon—
     when the flies are finally fed—
          when a prophet, rouge
smeared, stirs:

already
          the light  
                   has departed

yet how desperately some cling—
         and how weighted:
                 the wilting reach
of wisteria—
         still
                 waiting.