On Montserrat you are listening.
Mountain the winter
of some dormant beast’s coat,
all dips and shallows
will you higher.
There is no voice in your head,
nothing to tell you of self.
In the wait for someone to speak,
the air about your ears grows thick
and Montserrat silence sucks blood from your ear.
Crags of birds curve
for the hermit cave of your skull.
Chapel now rock
among the rock,
wooden door sealed
seam and hinge.
Dull iron cross
man-high.
Prayer-place wall reveals
underneath dust a handprint here,
where they stooped their spines
through cool dark-scraped rock,
last, lay lizard on
monastery steps in the sun.
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