Where have I been?

I count ambulances now.

They are like proud beasts
with siren songs, silhouettes
of hope, whispers of
immortality, and empty bellies;
they throw their lights across
bare walls and empty rooms.

     As if to ask:

           Will love save you?

And in angry reply I speak
for myself, through the curtains
and single window panes.

     I say:

           Love is all we have.

           If not,

                       death.

And, as if in reply, one

returns; a wounded dog, chains
trailing at its feet and I
see inside.

      Priests or Paramedics?

Love is safe this time.

But other times in less
dream-like lives, which
is to say with eyes wide

open:

      They return in vicious form
      with death lit up, put
      on display:

            This Chariot Confessional.

            This ring of red and blue.

            This unfortunate consequence.

                  Priests or Paramedics?

I count ambulances now.

They are like wounded dogs

in quiet retreat.

I count ambulances now.

I do, I swear I do.