I found it there again
by the blasted fig
under the withered vine,
the bloody ache
called the divine.
In a bombarded hospital,
a blue-skinned savior
draws breath;
while overhead, chronology
is defied,
the fruit flings back
towards a bloom of fire,
and the summer air
darkens with
a pollen of
smoke.
Elsewhere,
108 tears of the Buddha
have fallen;
needlessly shed
blood,
their compassion cut short.
I can walk in the footsteps
of the cross carriers.
I can't yet bear
the hand the wields the hammer.
But the hammer fits my own.
Perhaps that is where
one starts.
