John, John,
belly laced with locusts and honey
shouting the hot hills down
striding the Word into all those preoccupied hearts
shy of repentance,
your dry voice booming in the wilderness
dropped with a gasp
as the quiet one waded the waters
baring his unbaptized head.
Your prophecies,
bounding for centuries
among the companioning rocks,
meet us at boulders' end
still supple with meaning
for all those divining in the desert
after the hidden source.
