I Don’t Think We Can Hear the Prophet Properly

I don’t think we can hear the prophet properly
that voice crying out in the wild place,
not while his best poetry
has been reduced to framed art prints
on clearance at the bible book store.

Maybe if we went deep into those deserts
where the sun burns the face
and demons torture the night,
maybe there we could hear the voice,
     “prepare, prepare, prepare,
      a way for the glory of God.”

Our fast food flesh is too fat
to remember that all flesh is grass,
and our self-indulgent youth obsession
vainly denies the fading flower.

Perhaps we’ve heard it too often
because we don’t know what it means
to speak comfort to her.
We want only to soar with eagles.