The Pilgrim’s Arrival

elegant as the miles ahead

vanishing into soft masses of

ebony night, white dunes drank up the

navigator as his fever weltered

however briared the way, the

art would have it, or grievously

reticulated in untested crossings

do not despair: no path is closed

maybe the temple is what they say

inlaid in fragrant woods, tenderly

lit by ten thousand trembling wicks

eaning sighs of warm yearning

stone hewn altar washed in joy

supplicants as numerous as stars

have gone before, crowding the

intradoses, surely, to line with great care

naked galleries with gifts or sweep the crepis

evening after morning until the end of time

undeserving wanderers turn back

never trusting fully where all roads lead

despair of broken faith, lunacy of fear, to

end the dream—no path is closed—to not

remember trails can fall beneath the sand

seduction of the searcher to think all

thoroughfares to sanctuary lead

ardor of convergence, salt distilled from

rovers by implacable destination

listen—the fire of the winds has shattered

invisible stelae sharing secrets of distance

ghosts of columns ground to grit and dust

hum gently to his sinking brow the temple’s

truth: this desert once was marble.