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.
