He tries to sleep.
Head tipped
Against shoulder.
Arm over arm.
Old bones interlaced
With ancient bones.
Curved into
A grotto defined
By a hundred ages.
But, like some saints,
He is lashed by shadows.
Shadows within his own.
And, outside his bed,
The wind roars and mocks
Its own hysteria.
He closes his eyes,
Tries to dream
Of his hands . . .
Hawk-brown . . .
Hard-painted
With the chrism
Of clay and mercy.
Knowing this and still unwilling to leave,
He looked out from the narrow crevice
Of both horizons and tried to stretch out
His worn hands to measure the distance
Between here and beyond,
Beat vigorous, unfamiliar wings
Against the change.
