I've expanded like the swollen door in summer

   to fit my own dimension. Your loneliness

is a letter I read and put away, a daily reminder

   in the cry of the magpie that I am

still capable of inflicting pain

   at this distance.

Like a painting, our talk is dense with description,

   half-truths, landscapes, phrases layered

with a patina over time. When she came into my life

   I didn't hesitate.

Or is that only how it seems now, looking back?

   Or is that only how you accuse me, looking back?

Long ago, this desert was an inland sea. In the mountains

   you can still find shells.

It's these strange divagations I've come to love: midday sun

   on pink escarpments; dusk on gray sandstone;

toe-and-finger holes along the three hundred and fifty-seven foot

   climb to Acoma Pueblo, where the spirit

of the dead hovers about its earthly home

   four days, before the prayer sticks drive it away.

Today all good Jews collect their crimes like old clothes

   to be washed and given to the poor.

I remember how my father held his father around the shoulders

   as they walked to the old synagogue in Philadelphia.

"We're almost there, Pop," he said. "A few more blocks."

   I want to tell you that we, too, are almost there,

for someone has mapped this autumn field with meaning, and any day

   October brooding in me, will open to reveal

our names—inscribed or absent —

   among the dry thistles and spent weeds.