Pilgrimage I - Pilgrim

I bring my blood-gifts
to your altar  I cast
my hair and skin  I leave
my finger prints behind
on the wooden pew.

Upstairs I stare at the
plain walls, and think,
and write.  I carry
the memory of your head,
feet and hands

inscribed in glass
and backlit.  The stone place
is cold and echoes
quietly to the high
light voices of women singing.

I tremble with the
fatigue of my journey:
the movement of trains
across miles of industry
to the sea.  My feet brought me.
Holy City
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