O me O my O molten ash,
sulfuric gas—where was Jesu
at your Vesuvius—
I ask centuries later because I am feeling
that feeling I can only describe as
a difficulty rising above.
Part of me wants the darkness, all of it,
& the heat & chalices of wine rancid & passion
rampant & courage supreme. & also a cornucopia
of fruits on the side, just before the storm.
I want all forms of extravagance &
to be the vagrant Sappho would have been
proud of or the roman beauty of the ages
who could turn any man to dust
or against himself. My sermon on your mount
would have been a treatise to the bruises
on my knees for the nights I spent the hours
making sure God could understand me
but all I got was a wink
from above & so I learned to go gently
into that good night
because in morning all would likely be lost.
In truth I could not want
bliss consistent or the wages
of the world people get from carrying
attitudes so mortal & so now.
Love candles while you can,
ghosts of pompeii

Originally published in White Wall Review 41 (2017)