From a Book of Common Prayer

If time is measured out in syllablesFlavored with spices—anise, cardamom,Mustard—which the beloved spiritedAway to sprinkle over a mountain grave,Where I had prayed, night after night, for herTo meet me one last time . . . Ashes to ashes,She said, and then descended into the valleyOf speech, which I would not visit again.

Red houses, lavender fence posts, and landMines planted on the hillside leading to the border,Which I would cross, under cover of darkness,Determined to see my father before he died.We had been separated for so longThat I could not recall his customaryThreat, which had once haunted my days and nights.Oh, yes: You will be deader than a doornail.

Knock, said the monk, and the door will be opened.The pilgrim sighed in the confessional,Unable to imagine how one wordHad freed his friend from bondage to the thingsThat he most loved—arak and erotica,Fast cars and football after work on Wednesdays . . .The monk dismissed him with another verse,Unheard: For everyone who asks receives . . .