Diaspora Sonnet I

I walk the narrow pedestrian passage
illumined so its girdered ribs show
like names on a ledger. Every step
sudden and trochaic — the beginning
of facts. Of being here.

I look up and see the moon
is brandishing its ghosts. What is
here and not here. What is
a face in the sky. What breaks
the shape of the known and obvious.

If I could say it, I would say
"I was broken and I took him in."
I would ask, "Do you trust me?"
I would point to the landscape.