In Andalucía, an Apologia

Deep night,
with the moon owl-eye yellow,
I walked on cobblestones
over the atrium walls
of Visigoths and the apse
of Roman baths.
I leaned unsteady against the staff
at the Moor’s necropolis—
on the floor, cracked amphoras,
chalk-white bones in disarray

I saw the sea
rise and cover it all.
There are times and locations
that disrupt the vector
of a life,
and I know I was a stone cutter
or a mason in a different century.
How sure can we be of time,
if space is but an intersection?
I have glimpsed the beggar
outside the temple.
I have been him,
and I have been the temple.

Mind Mudra: A Sangha Poem
Insomnia and a Maidenhair Fern