The Path

    There is so little to go on： a pale

    trembling hand as I stand over you，

    my finger tracing the words on the page，

    a foreign language you are learning

    for a journey without me. You will do

    fine， I say. You will wrap your tongue

    around these sounds and be understood，

    be given what you desire： a loaf of bread，

    change for your money， an antique doll

    with violent eyes. Paintings are hanging

    on walls， behind glass， waiting for you

    to admire them. Their plaintive beauty

    will move through you and you will walk

    back to your hotel through the park

    I know well. I spent years there walking

    its bridle path， a gray cat in my arms，

    moving toward you， blind， in another life.