once when we were filthy by the river
and lived in small rooms,
where our children
seldom slept well or played long,
we remembered touching the veil.

we remembered shallow lifting wind
that grew until breathing was as difficult
as the scraping of bone.
we remembered faithless days of labor,
soaring promises written in grand epistles.

once we set out for new jerusalem.

we came to the place of rusted iron,  
hinges fused through, flaking away
at the outer skin of traditions and history.
and there we stood before the gates.

the temples were empty, no one remained to pray.
no one used their proper name.
and every script and paper, decree, report, and plan
described in detail a perfect union,
yet livid in language small and petty,

from beyond the walls in harsh beautiful voice,
we heard the wailing and blaming.
we tore at days like plain white bread,
and swept the frost from wealthy sidewalks,
and slept beneath her fragrant promise.

awakened each morn wounded,
stones begging for life.
in the throat of a dream.
lying about where we’d been,
hiding in the squander of foam, aroma,
and small mounds of dirt swept
ready to be panned to waste.

they demanded bond,
resting like the arch of a foot
on grace as long as blood flowed,
as long as they could truthfully lie.

and somewhere in the reflected vision,
the muddy pools of rain and work
that litter the streets of that once fair place,
we remembered that for one short hour
we had wanted nothing else.