The resilience of architecture
comforts the pilgrim,
no place to lay his head
his own head maybe
but there are places,
houses proliferate, stone
walls stand.
I rub my eyes,
Parthenons and Vaticans
on every street.
And every boulevard
leads to the sky–
every pilgrim knows that.
The delivery van drives around
and finds its fated house.
The pilgrim watches
boxes walk inside,
the truck move on.
Why can’t it be a bus
and him inside? There is
some me everywhere
so why not I?
Itchy grass, autumn moth.
another mile.

5 October 2022