WEBVTT

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Well, after I gave you
your spiritual lesson,

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you probably don't
need the next poem.

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It's called Sins.

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At night your money, oil, and
trees, marches toward the sea.

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Past the houses of the
ambassadors, the white dogs,

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their daughter's bark at them
from the hedges and porticos.

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Dancing out on the
wharves past the sultan's

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asleep in the piles.

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They enter the ships
like worms crawling down

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through ribs toward
the frog's waking up

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to lightning in the villages.

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Next morning, sail.

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Maps curled into a
burning asbestos lettuce.

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They are already well
underway on a fresh sea.

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The captains look back with
their doughy boyish faces,

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as inland among the cottages
the celery seed scattered

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like minor sins grows into
a lacy forest with stalks

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big as houses.

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