The line moves on.
Each man with a tray.
The beard hairs turn gray.
Sentenced without a trial
for a crime unnamed.
I can’t complain.
It’s a trade:
the fields of winter grain,
the white churches in the rain,
the stone angels’ trumpets at the graves,
the bindweed climbing fenced chains.
Be silent! There’s ineffability.
Words cannot snag any real thing.
Be a Trappist monk. Work. Hoe.
Harvest. Eat. Pray without words.
Before you were given
The role to name.