Everything

  Here is everything I know, and all that I don’t:

Not one single question is raised out of the empty tomb;

but the gardener answers anyway: “Don’t touch me.”

Christ still walks betrayed under the viaduct,

with our second-hand souls tucked in his shopping cart.

Where shall we go? Where the wind blows us.

Where does that wind come from? Around.

Can’t you smell it in our clothes?

Leaning in that dusty doorway—

even without coming or going, we trip over the threshold.