Spes

He talks about Jesus
and hash, as though salvation came
through a weed: put to his lips,
breathed out among many.

He runs at night
through the red-light center in his head,
hearing the heavy footfalls of One
who is never far behind;
hiding the incense he burnt to himself;
until it sinks into the asphalt
at his feet, soggy and sickly sweet.

He keeps his dreams bound
carefully beside the bed;
watching them from outside.
He tucks the nightmares away,
letting them curl back, waiting;
gathering strength as they twitch and whisper
in the darkness, pulling him back within
to feel around the hole inside.
To put his hand on the red, raw edges,
to touch the tender areas and wonder:
what has he torn out?