they carry His book

the wanderers have descended on the city
nickel-eyed with knobbly hands extended
to touch the wet stone and black iron
that winds along the streets
with faces concave, they preach
they hover, laden with a delusional certainty
that makes my bones cold
the wanderers become still
fanned out, beyond the yellow line
who are you to say, oh devious shepherd of the blind?
for to me, the greatest evil minds are tame
beside your incestuous and unwavering claim of wisdom