You sweet precious 

prophet, you drama-driven 

poet, you prophet

        for profit:

if not cash then 

congratulation,

admiration, ease, 

indulgence, delight

all taste     so sweet.

O you sweet sluggish

    reluctant “prophet”

(you like 

that word),

enlightened one,

        so chosen, so wise,

with what serenity you step aboard the ship

    that will sail you wherever you wish.

The sailors, you fancy, sail so to serve you,

    you poet, you mystic.

You savor sweet self-

    direction, poised, self-

      possessively smiling,

        even on the run.

You hide in your sleep

        as if sleep will keep you.

O Jonah you fairy-tale

    hero, I grant you:

you realized it’s better to drown alone

    than plunge everyone into your ruin.

O Jonah, I grant you:

    you knew on the third day

when you weren’t yet digested

        (seaweed encircling 

your sodden head,

swallowed up / not consumed,

            underwater, in over 

your head / somehow 

not drowned)

    that your enemy devoured you 

to lug you alive

        (God in the fish-teeth,

            pharynx, bile, spleen,

        God in the rocks at the roots of the mountains,

            God in the vomit,

                God in dry sand).

O sweet precious 

          prophet, I say all this not 

            to your credit,

 for how could you

      pray     poetry

out of such depths 

    and not love

every city,

    every dust-to-mud 

street, every tyrant,

    any panicked enemy,

         animal moan?

(God in the sea-monster, 

God in the gale, God 

      in the current and spume,

           God in digestion and in indigestion) God

took you down

     for three days

and you came

   out alive. (God

in the ignorant, God in the cruel) God

    set you down

    to your three-day

task. You lasted

    one day before turning back (you delicate

creature) tired and irate, 

       repulsed by risk

of contamination, degradation (God 

in the ramparts, the burnt bricks,

the burned-out, the trade routes,

the weapons, the cattle), shit.

O Jonah, 

       you tired haughty hero,

you lounge in the shade

     of wild vines, flourishing

verdant and sudden; O Jonah deserving 

of lushness, of rest,

you relish the prospect

    of Nineveh’s fall; you relish

     your own sweet 

life (God 

    in the vine, God in 

      your ecstatic delight).

(God in the swords of the soldiers,

    God in the sweat of the whores)

O Jonah you pity

        (God in this 

      godforsaken

            desolate place)

    your vine as it dies; Jonah you savor

            (God in the sackcloth)

     your anger

           (God in the ashes)

    Jonah        

when will you love     the grub

         (God in the worm)

devouring your garden,

        when will you love the worm

                        that eats you alive?