The old spice seller told me to be a tourist
But I told him we did not have that sort of relationship.
I could not approach those places of memories
With cold blank curiosity.
There was too much blood on the corners,
Too many gulped back tears in the alcoves.
I just saw You, Lord,
On the Via Dolorosa,
In the greyness, struggling with that brute cross,
The Roman cane.
The spice seller nodded,
He knew crucifixion,
He, too, had taken people off trees
Before the Sabbath dawn.