Turn left, then right where brick canyons cave
Into restaurant rooftops, decaying friezes
Whispering city history like Yaxchilan lintels:
One crooked alley morphs silhouettes into drain pipes with
Night, the magician, molding frames:
Harvest moon Saturday rises stoically above ramparts,
Spotlights your hunter grey jacket
No longer camouflaged, tilting shadow against railings:
Trapped like a saint’s small wisp of hair
gets stuck between cedar planks of a reliquary,
I squinted past the yellowed glass
but could not reach you.
If a photo twists dimensions, separation spreads centuries
Into borders, shuffling ochre rinsed memories in
the shoebox.
Reliquary
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