Issue 5, Winter 2008

Pilgrimage
by Frederick Pollack

When he was down,
the place he was in
and those he thought of filled
with witnesses.  They could not see
what he endured
from priests, peers, bosses, other
oppressors, or hear
remarks addressed
by the back of his throat
to his own ears; but they
remembered them.  Had read them
somehow, and meditated on them
now, awkwardly gathered
around his desk or bed.  He could almost see
through their eyes
the walls, e.g., of his cubicle,
yellowed and hallowed,
removed from time, the stones of
a counter-time.  Could almost
hear in their minds
what he thought, impossibly perfected.
He could almost see
them, slack-jawed with reverence,
weeping.  They made
a story of his shapeless anecdote.  And as
they walked here and there
lashing themselves, the town became
sublime, a desert;
a half-imagined house
in which he had been happy,
the chancel of that meanest love
which, being nowhere, must be everywhere.