guache, 11" x 14"
Journal entry, February 20, 1996
still run from you
Cold saints, dim lights.
Suffering statues with upturned eyes ecstatic
clutch at me. Blood pours from my mouth.
the rags and bones of the dead receive me
into opulent courts and gilded altars.
The smoke of incense obscures my vision.
free, I think,
the smell of myrrh
in my nostrils,
the feel of a winding sheet about my shoulders.