Brief Incarnation (Poetry)

Body prone. Observing casual at street level
passing feet on the hazy eye’s horizon —
sandalled feet of brown-skinned girls and men
with no thought or time for that most basic act
of human pity.

Careful not to touch
the various stitched leathers scurry by
determined not to meet the beggar’s gaze
not brush against a sad infectious life
compassion’s bird locked silent in its cage.

Next — the pious whispers and cool hands of nuns
a cot inside a veil where filtered sunlight
found my ruined body curled
floating on a flower-scented sea
lapping at my senses.

Time was everywhere but here
this garden its own cure against the world
safe as butterflies blessed by a high thermal
a haven for the guileless spirit
tumbled from its flight.

Far-off I heard them singing
temple-lyrics — ancient — lilting clear
the street no more than memory and fading
another life — another continent — some city
once risen from the lonely desert sand …