Letters to Jerusalem

To hold the bird and not to crush her, that is the secret. Sand
turned too quickly to cement and who cares if the builders lose
their arms? The musk of smoldered rats on sticks that trailed
their tails through tunnels underground. Trickster of light, I
walk your cobbled alleys all night long and drink your salt. City
of bones, I return to you with dust on my tongue. Return to your
ruined temple, your spirit of revolt. Return to you, the ache at
the center of the world.
—Reprinted by permission of Louisiana State University Press from Eyes, Stones (2012)

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