My lingering tragedy- that I never embraced idolatry
Never folded my hands to an icon
Never stooped to kneel to something I could not see
I remember walking home summer afternoons, bloomed,
Barefoot in the silence, my eyes losing morning
with the passage of time, my feet leaving no prints
in the pale and careworn sand
Locked in a reality that leaves no room for faith, I am
Only ever alone; my back pages line up neatly
In a closed book I will not try to open
My greatest tragedy, that there is nothing on the horizon
Except more heat and sand; and I am here walking,
In the drought of a thousand summers
A long ways from you,
Headed towards someplace
No softer than home