This land would like to fold
its surface into peaks,
let no feet touch it.
The heavy sun leans
on black bedouin tents
that cover the nomad’s mind.
Here light has no mercy,
shadows are wounds
that blacken the sand.
Olive trees stand up,
gargoyles fed on
distant, buried moisture.
The mountains of Moab
severe and white, salt
the gaze and turn it back.
Even the wind is red
when it comes, it swarms
with insidious sands.
No blue door opens in to
the infinite, in this land
the eyes of Jesus saw
nothing.