Golem on Ash Wednesday

       As the dead of winter dies

the ground, smothered in snow, thaws

melting into mire and mud. There

in the clay You see my unmade substance

You mold my limbs

Your finger scratches 

my forehead with ashes 

branding Truth between my eyes.

    I dress myself in brittle leaves 

and wander Chicago St. alone

drunk at eleven thirty-something.

My bones burn like a firebrand, my throat 

with cheap whiskey.   I sit on a 

bench on Walton Island:

          I am the king of a kingdom of thimbles,

          I am the vulture of a far-off wilderness.

          I am an evening shadow and when

You wipe my forehead clean

my body will crumble to the floor:

From dust you came,

And dust you shall return.