I am like Moses,
who wandered in a foreign, wasted land—not forever,
but, sometimes in this blowing sand,
it seems so much another gust just blows atop another gust,
and all to ever touch the face
is frictive grit and smells of dust,
and never comes a change in light to tell the days are passing by,
until you find yourself atop the mountain and the view on high
just takes the breath and stays
the heart
for one heavy second while the heart tries to find its
beat and both lungs heave to find the step they've lost
to the sparkling air that blew across the river
from the holy shore which, from the mountain,
seems so much another field on the same wide grounds,
and you know that it’s for someone else.
What, really, can I say?
You ask me why I look away?
Because I am like Moses,
and I cannot bear to look here anymore.