I feel you, Gethsemane
Distant tears of blood sap trees
Tearing me towards my fated rest.
I taste you, Gethsemane
In the olives and poison pears
In the wine of Soho squares
In the rust on iron swans.
I hear you, Gethsemane
In the drilling locusts of the streets
Dips of tarmac valleys
Of neon coffees and empty alleys
Singing sharp circles in the air.
I know you, Gethsemane
In my quiet consternation
Hot bruised knees in salutation
Impaled hopes and young dreams
Of an innocent wanting to die.