Emmaus

First the sun, then the shadow

so that I screw my eyes to see

my friend's face, and its lines seem

different, and the voice shakes in the hot air.

Out of the rising white dust, feet

tread a shape, and, out of step,

another flat sound, stamped between voice

and ears, dancing in the gaps, and dodging

where words and feet do not fall.

When our eyes meet, I see bewilderment

(like mine); we cannot learn

the rhythm we are asked to walk,

and what we hear is not each other.

Between us is filled up, the silence

is filled up, lines of our hands

and faces pushed into shape

by the solid stranger, and the static

breaks up our waves like dropped stones.

So it is necessary to carry him with us,

cupped between hands and profiles,

so that the table is filled up, and as

the food is set and the first wine splashes,

a solid thumb and finger tear the thunderous

grey bread. Now it is cold, even indoors,

and the light falls sharply on our bones;

the rain breathes out hard, dust blackens,

and our released voices shine with water.