Pilgrimage

If we traveled 
on the speed of our desire,
where would we be by now?

The moon's milky glaze on the road
leads to the sea: and every window's
antlered with light—

but if you knocked on the doors
to ask for lodgings, they might
or might not open.

Evening falls in the countryside.
A donkey brays and farmhands
round up the sheep.

We all come back
in the night to gnaw
at something.

In the middle of the field
lies the heart of a saint,
or the bones buried by the dog.

There's a name for the kind
of hunger that can't stop eating
only because the mouth is lonely.


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