The Room and The Road
       

River I cannot swim from
                rinses those reeds, the whistling
                              high moments of reeds

so I can understand what it is to travel,
                endure, slip lightly
                              from one country to another

as if I were pulling off shirts,
                like the approach to the beige
                              and pink church in Andacollo

after struggling for days through cactus land,
                a church that is all light,
                              no shadow sees it yet;

then I enter the crypt
                and I can just make out
                              jewels, badges, crutches

left behind to thank the Virgin
                for saving a life, for making good;
                              so quiet and unexceptional

must this reverie be at first,
                this casting off
                              of all I own —

even the sturdiest ground,
                where a tree shakes itself free in the rain
                              and the room knows.

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Copyright © 2011 Jane Duran All rights reserved
from Graceline
Enitharmon Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission