david xeno; circular argument

i write with the blood of slit wrists
those who slash their wrists do it over and over
it is a kind of writing

a kind of prayer

so many 'Hail Mary's to wash away the sin

i cry with tears from the Dead Sea
waters that buoy up sinners like cork
as if they'd gone to heaven

floating like clouds

free at last from Job and Ecclesiastes

descending the spiral staircase of the tower of Pisa

i thought of Dante's Inferno
but at the bottom was bright sunshine

not Satan's arse

now it's closed to tourists

the circles of my life have become tedious
i want to roll them all out flat. but i need someone
to hold one end as i uncurl them

hold and not let go

as i write the supine circle of omega