Only poets know this dark water.
Only the tossed derelicts of life
arrive at this far away place,
and find this oasis, this poisoned pool,
and drink its sorrowful rancid water,
already knowing it will rage in their stomachs.

And then they begin their screams.

They will scream at the red dust that
forgets everything and knows only the wind,
scream to the forsaken carved-out rocky places
where prophets once lay,
and left bones which now, too, have left;
scream as well at the night stars that bend in darkness,
spiral-spilling down the back of the night,
not yet out of sight, but glowing dimly
like icy, burning, diluted milk.

Is God here in this cold, dark, solitary place,
among these clicking date palms, in this frigid wind?
Or is it only that still, silent, ever-staring Sphinx
glaring dumbly down the dim, darkened desert
waiting to see us fall off the earth into that ever-milky haze?
Oh, Lord, I scream,
take me out of Egypt.