Permanent Handshakes In A Temporary Time
 
 

I pulled into Nazareth
in time to see
groups of honest citizens reciting
litanies of their favorite teachers
year by year.

Names rose of their own accord and were chanted
across aerial patchworked landscapes.

The palm at the end of the fist.
The psalm at the end of the mind.

Boulders eroded into pocket rocks
for a fidgety coastline hiker in just under
six hundred years of the wind and the rain
and the sea crest crashing askance.
I will ask my father if he can drive us to the dance.

Aged hands folded in a world war prayer
on the pew's grease indented wood wells.

A palm tree advertising iced tea.
Palm of the dampening strings.
St. Palm's wort.

The sea stays older than the land longer.
I see six hundred years spinning on her palm.
I sense distant electric light on an unfinished roadbed.

The guests guessed
I was kidding
so quickly
I gained an immediate respect
for their wit
and furthermore felt
free to tease them
all weekend.

After the sun had set and it became azure
I had nothing to contribute to the conversation.
I sat silently sipping iced tea, watching
the sea cause the sea wall to slowly disappear.
 

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