Anything you lose comes around in another form.
The child weaned from mother’s milk
now drinks wine and honey mixed.
God’s joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box,
from cell to cell.
down into flowerbed.
As roses, up from the ground.
Now it looks like a plate of rice and fish,
Now a cliff covered with vines,
Now a horse being saddled.
It hides within these,
till one day it cracks them open.
There’s the light gold of wheat in the sun,
and the gold of the bread made from wheat…
I have neither, I am only talking about them
as a town in the desert looks up
to stars on a clear night.