Give me your body I shall never know to the end,
Give me the vessel, not the wine.

The pressures of my life bring together my birth day
And my death day, like history books.

People caught in a homeland-trap:
to speak now in this weary language

All the crumbling things
Are on their way to becoming one again

And their faces are still crisscrossed
with God’s will.

Sandals are the youth of a shoe
And the memory of its trek to the desert.

You had a laughter of grapes:
many round green laughs.

In his next incarnation he’ll be a sword: the hurt will re-
      main.

Harassed with inquiry, I
waited up by a scale-flaked
boulder in a willow glen,

You came one day and
as usual in such matters
significance filled everything—