The old priest considered the cast-iron oil pot sitting in the corner of the immaculate kitchen. It was heavy, and his back hurt.
The trees growing on the canyon walls whispered to him. "Prepare
... [+]
across night fields
squinting; I can see
lives I never lived
I drive on, into the village,
into the rain
a traffic light turns red;
I see Picasso-people
walking in the raindrops
running down the window
the crescent moon is thin
a fingernail clipping
pointless, almost;
there are no stars
a canal-bank heron becomes illuminated
by the headlights
as I pass;
I wonder why
it is not afraid