The Nameless Temple Speaks

Not raised for a name,
even if a name
is like a trail—
both living and dead
can still travel it,
can still meet,

or touch the base—
between the ends—

or, like some lovers’ silence,
struck by a pronounced word,
granting us other eyes
with sight—

before lips recall a prayer
that shifts the weight
into the arms of one another’s wings,

so the soul may grow its face
and move—to dance—
strings of a strumming spine.

For what can a temple be
without its own tongue
and living flame—

without the adjourned return
and the entry through its quietude,
which, at last, grows old?

Then how could anyone forget
when beauty makes
such approach—

even with a tap
rising from below
your near sole?

So we learn
from mountains
that salvation
is such encounter—

and how to listen,
how to wait,
even through mist,
and to the farthest distance:

O you do remember—

I am
this same place.