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The Old Mission.
Where it existed, you could have gotten anything–
the vacant house, the parched roof, even the dry
root cellar. I was there, I handled
the keys as you broke each step on your way down.
The jar of pesce, jar of rings.

But that won’t open it up.
The vast square above is cut out in a semaphore.
There is nothing to decipher.
No ladder to fall on.
                                         The rest goes in,
and if you have some offering on you
become as bread, as winnowed wheat.
I tell you I’ve eaten it all up.