Pilgrimage

Each distant comfort
Of the rooster crow—
Moonlight, midday, morning—
Your earth face
Is the sun I turn toward.

I cannot stop
This dayless revolution,
Wake against
Your lips’ soft sculpture.

Mandorla gaze—
Two gentle slopes
Of slow lashed lids
Unveil you.

Trusting child,
Stock-still—
More man than sight
Can take.

My breath unfolds
Its crumpled paper.
Blood writes your name
In simple script.

My hands speak
Their silent words
Upon your crown,
Your cheek, your neck,

The silken dunes
Work and wind
Have carved of you.
These shoulders. This back.

Warm chest blown
To belly, thighs
And ancient feet—
I need no map.
I am your hungry pilgrim.

2015

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