In a white cloak you must stare at an empty star.
On a dry rock you must wet your lips
and dream of leathery grass,
smelling the dew -
but there is no dew on this blue night:
Wormwood’s ghostly eyes intensify
and I’m oh so thirsty again,
as the suited men grin,
drooling prophecy with their rolling tongues.
Naked and cold,
you must stare at an empty star.