The Relic

It is not true,
or at least

unverifiable,
that I stood

in this desert
at the time

of Christ.
There are

no memories
like these.

Or at least
I can lay claim

to none.
If I had such

memories
they are

long gone.
Their forms

have been
lost down

the long
chain from

legibility to
illegibility.

And yet
I have been

in this desert
before.

The memory
is in

my body.
It is

in my feet,
on my skin,

in the bones.
If I were

a relic
uncovered

in the dust,
the question

might be
asked

of these
sensations:

“Are they
markings

in a
language

as yet
unheard of,

or mere
scratchings

of the tides,
the winds,

notations
in the ledger

of earthquake,
flood,

and fire?”
On hearing

this
an old man

may thunder:
“Nature

itself
speaks

a language
we have

yet
to see

or hear.
We are

mere hollers
and whispers

in nature's
larynx.”

Is this
what I

predicted
from the

throat
of Christ

when I was
John

the
Baptist?