Beneath a goose's wing
I found fire.
My fingers entered sheep's wool,
knuckle deep, felt skin.

Beneath coat, dress, flesh,
I probe to know what is given:
pain with each breath,
dreams of tidal waves,
books written in runes,
this desert.

There is progress,
faith that traveling
implies destination —
someplace God's finger
may extend, and love descend.