Pilgrim Sonnet
Redux
Come poor pilgrims,
There is no shrine, or a way to zero,
Still pilgrims, still pilgrims,
O by shrill and O by quail.
From Nameless Creek to Howling House
Pilgrims go, dry souls, a wanted-for ghost
For each of us who relinquish vowels
Into morning dust, fields turned to hymns.
They shout us down for the way we have not gone there.
They farm burning poems.
They whisper in their rebel sleep.
Poor pilgrims, one by one, come—
The enormous grass is the shrine.
The door is the night you leave behind.
—Andrew Grace
Andrew Grace
is the author of A Belonging Field. He is the winner
of Southern Poetry Review's 2003 Guy Owen
Prize.
Originally published in the December
2004/January 2005 issue of Boston Review
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