Of Nazareth

Land lies, not for use of self. Very slowly do


things vary. In some sense, rock breaks from
rock to become other. In another sense, black


knowns are always moving to the unknown.
Or skin. There are some places in this world


that are loved. And still other loves that are
placed. There is this place and there is this love.


Here. Under the olive branch. Except for now,
you have not yet pulled roadside in our descent.
I passed the silence by eating dates, sucking slow


pits to spit each seed out lowered window and
last pressing lone walnuts into defaced soft.
This is not you pausing to pull self from


self to relieve. This is me in the car seeing
you pool off and down. Dare me to speak
of what lies, below. Of Mary coming


to the well, only to see her guards, as well
as her angel. Each night, I remember every
part of my body has been touched except


the inside. And I am inside. I am letting myself
happen. As crows above turn quickening


berserk, taking flight over sky rising poppy
petal. Now. You were there. Above. You


were there. Nazareth is waiting. Nazareth waits
for no-one. I am still miles behind us, full


of wonder, at what palm each pit might become.