Bethzatha (in Jerusalem at the Sheep Gate)
Half-cowled faces are lost in the crowds where the street curves away from sunny archways.
Here, in these five porticos I feed on hope in the rag-shadows.
Limbs jut out on baked stones at unnatural angles
and the germ of every darkness comes to fruition
From time to time the waters stir, a plume disturbs our suffering world
which for a moment stands utterly still before the crippled swarm;
an implacable rush before me.
I cannot not heal if I crawl from my crook
to surrender my body to the drag of the waters
and rise up for sun dry silt on my face;
to live again.