Walking

A guy with a cane in a hoodie looks down
on the freeway, fettles the shape
of his backpack with his free hand, wipes down
his eyes. He must continue

writing his tired body on distance.
In this hour, nothing but travel,
this evening, nothing but moon. From the moon,
the red of his neck. It is nearly Easter;

people walk, heads down
in the wall of long wind toward the old Santuario,
toward the paradox
of walking without crutches or pain.

Toward our uncontained clouds, they push
through the eye of all doubt—
and if they mumble, it is the edifice
of language: how to withstand.

An intention is set, creased with the patterns
of desert. That I see a guy at the overpass
outside my village means winter’s small sphere
is mending, means every green impulse,

every desperate step makes sense.
Pilgrims don’t wander into panorama,
but seek a place to be healed.
Wind laps at a road gone loose.

There is something lonely in the near and far sky.
Does he see it?
So many travelers crippled with grief
press to the shoulders of freeway, putting faith

in the picture of particular flesh
and particular gesture: intonations of bone.
Take the blood of despair
from their parched lips. Take their exhaustion,

the density of sorrow, the lack, the imperfect
body with its bristle and promise. Take the sun-
kilned waiting, each bandage and handicap.
Give them luck from the shadows. Some reparation.