Walking Trees

I know what it is to live here
this mind, this body, an ancient city.
Layer upon layer, my inner Jerusalem:
caverns of the heart running
beneath sinew and bone,
muscle, skin and cotton.
So many hopes and fears packed
into small chambers, ready to burst
wide at any moment, to anyone
and for anything; sometimes evil,
at moments good.

There are questions that abide—
long-time residents, others new:
in spells, settling in with many neighbors;
in fits, clawing tunnels to the surface.
Memories, likewise, a pervasive mob—
some in plain view, shouting;
others behind walls and around corners,
smoking their quiet breath.

There is more here
than I can know or describe.
I see through a glass, darkly.

How can I begin to know you, love,
when I so little know myself?

How can I know you, brother,
when I run from myself?

How can I love you, enemy,
when I care so little for my known?

The worlds that live inside you all,
I am only beginning to see.
You look like trees, walking.

Lord, have mercy.
Lord, have mercy.
Lord, have mercy.