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The oldest of the Old World roils— |
that desert, dear, |
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of your redemption. Do cheers, tear gas, or wails |
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move you, sleepless still, through |
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streets you once abandoned? |
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In bookstacks, yes, |
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we met |
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unmoored from our centuries. |
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A man whom I made speak had made you speak |
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till we three fled |
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that tattered crime scene. |
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And now in frescoed Lent, in hagiographic glass |
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