Well, after I gave you your spiritual lesson,
you probably don't need the next poem.
It's called Sins.
At night your money, oil, and trees, marches toward the sea.
Past the houses of the ambassadors, the white dogs,
their daughter's bark at them from the hedges and porticos.
Dancing out on the wharves past the sultan's
asleep in the piles.
They enter the ships like worms crawling down
through ribs toward the frog's waking up
to lightning in the villages.
Next morning, sail.
Maps curled into a burning asbestos lettuce.
They are already well underway on a fresh sea.
The captains look back with their doughy boyish faces,
as inland among the cottages the celery seed scattered
like minor sins grows into a lacy forest with stalks
big as houses.