This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.


I’ve been lost, as always, in the sands
of some long ago desert that does not exist
in this world any more, wandering
through the words of one like me,
whose heart hauled him before God
and sang devotion as he gave up.

Little bits of life have floated in
between the split spine of this book,
held together by a frayed rubber band
right by its breaking point, stretched
beyond by what it has held within
all these many years, until last night,
when it finally snapped after I came back
from dinner with some dumb people
who taught me firsthand why
so many seek saviours rather than self.

I searched through scattered pages
for the place I left off and looked in wonder
as it showed me that such texts are
not time machines, but eternal invitations
to share the most intimate moments
with those who see the gathered pilgrims
gracing this desert in lines that will
be washed away by the next wind and,
for an endless second,
to not feel so alone.

I cried with him,
for all our brethren gone before,
and then got up to do my washing
because he was then and I am now
and you will be again
in the promised time to come.

I swear to God I’ll find you,
to whisper how we worked out the way,
that night before reaching Mecca.
How we remembered why it is
that we travel this long road.


The road

To forgotten lands