Crucifying on Tarot's Celtic cross,
the Devil tells me, "Scorpio, you've stung
your head with winged visions from the eyelids
of the dead." A kaleidoscope flutters
terror through me: a blood sun sets on this
evil Calvary, where no mourners wail,
and stock-still leaves on dormant trees hiss,
"Eli, Eli lama sabachthani."
The earth is sound. No veil is torn. The saints
sleep soundly; their graves unborn. I wake
to waking, and wish my waking done. Sleep
escapes me, and I wish my visions done.