The Wandering Prophet

why do you love like a child, or a dog,
with your mysterious sixth sense
running like a horse in an open field

why do you skip with a delicate random,
as if you didn’t want to soil your soul
with the predictable

why do they go blind in a room full of light,
or cripple up on the road to splendor

why do i kneel and prostrate before a window
when they sleep high in their phallic towers

why do the birds sing and the winds moan
when the rocks are so silent and brutal

why this inexorable rhythm, this whine
from the turn of a wheel

why do some lights leap in the night
when others move snail-like toward dawn

why the first chapter of Job
and such terrible work from your fingers

why does this road unravel
in the way that brings death and alarm