and we
we came to a different earth.
built a camp fire . . .
dreaming of hills of yellow flowers
(the crosses on a rock wall
stood withering in heat) a saint’s closed
way, that separated us
a fire brand thrown up in darkness
that lighted the trees and burned
hard against the still road, the terror
that with each mile
threw itself back upon us, inward
from summers of sleep to pass, through
winters of cold
to another kind of sleep and dream
(held in ice)
waiting. . .waiting
for a hand to reach in warmth (each sealed
in his own hard covering)
and love
was with us. no outside touch
from the lips inward
birds that cried over the fields
looked down in their passing
shapes irregular as grain, held
disappearing in shadow