Anam Cara

Nothingness:

The Secret of the Cross

This land would like to fold

its surface into peaks,

let no feet touch it.

The heavy sun leans

on black bedouin tents

that cover the nomad’s mind.

Here light has no mercy,

shadows are wounds

that blacken the sand.

Olive trees stand up,

gargoyles fed on

distant, buried moisture.

The mountains of Moab

severe and white, salt

the gaze and turn it back.

Even the wind is red

when it comes, it swarms

with insidious sands.

No blue door opens in to

the infinite, in this land

the eyes of Jesus saw

nothing.