The Hinge

My brother is still alive and living In Fresno. All day he stares at the dead bodies Of automobiles In his garage. It isn’t a prison He’d wish himself free of. I visit him, Dragging my boxes Of books and awards Behind me. We are walking out of the city Into the white flame of the desert. Not unlike the Desert Fathers walking out into Sinai. My brother carries his briefcase Loaded in icons and dollar bills. He is wearing Larry Levis’s shining Suit and black leather boots. I am wearing a pale gown Of sun-bleached flowers. We are talking About the Resurrection. We are walking dead Into it Leaving the world and its sweet chorus Of horrors behind. There is no city But the city within. No door, but the door To simple wisdom. We walk, dumb As newborns Into the tremendous and endless Blessing.