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.