mud puddles, a map of Palestine,
carefully framed, unfolded,
with tiny blue crossed swords
near the battles recorded
in the Holy Land, behind dirty glass,
scales in Geographical and Italian Miles,
Roman Miles, English Statute Miles,
and the rate of travelling on horseback,
3 English Miles per hour,
so I brought it home with Jesus,
woodcut, broken glass in unequal thirds,
in black, white and vivid red, Jesus awkwardly
washing eleven disciples' feet,
his halo looking too heavy,
his face frowning into
thick lines of a dark beard
as if the celebration and betrayal
were more than he could bear alone.
***********
And then by the side of the road, I saw
a shattered mirror, scattered,
showing small bits of blue sky
and the underside of birds,
coming back after winter,
so hopeful, as only birds can be.
We looked up while they coalesced and cackled,
landing in a disturbingly large number
on both sides of the house,
then flew upward as two halves became one,
disappearing, leaving a feeling of unease
although nothing and everything
changed in that moment.
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