"Come," she says. "I'll show you
second hand" and takes her palms
to her brow and pulls them wide:
walls crack to ooze a levant
light around us, swirl us - here.
This hill has strange trees.
"Only three, today," she smiles,
"I've watched them plant forests
some mornings." A spring orchid
spires amid cups of blue bindweed.
I see shapes in the guttering sun,
watching, long shadows restored.
"We could not go to him; we bore
witness instead, a child of whispers:
what monsters and martyrs we birthed!"
Almond petals spot the dry dirt
white about our feet. From the vale
wafts a sharp citrus; from the city
call the chisel taps of hasty repair.
"Lost!" she murmers. "I cannot move!"