Poetry

Returning for a Minor Operation

(for my brother, Greg) I haven’t been to the Holy Land but expect I would feel that way: the sense that at the site of the Garden or the wall of the old city, among the continual passage of feet, of breathing, talking people I was stepping on ground where He had stepped on his way to me. I had it in Old Delhi: the dust in the streets, the Mughal bricks: everywhere we breathe in yesterdays and tomorrows, so many of them, turning over, ploughing under, returning in a street-seller’s bad-teethed smile, the kites winging over. What I can’t…

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