on this pilgrimage, i take direction from
an old blind woman:
she knows the bones of the city
from the times before it was a city.
we climb and watch the clouds
accumulate, swirl across the
sky face like a sensate clock,
bear witness
with our bodies
as they open in wordless
prayer: motion, rhythm,
breath — the things men run from.
we come home and place slips
of spiral paper into bead boxes:
let go of the worry chain.
call forth the abundance
of our human inheritance.
lunachik 