I am a non-believer in surgery’s
Quick medicine.
The sewed-together wound, the stitch
In time, the surface scar, is something which
You will rarely find this invalid
Believing in.
My trust’s in wounds which look like wounds,
Which pain
Because no real wound ever heals
But lurks beneath the skin and feels
Like an underground of coals prepared
To flame again.
I visited Berchtesgaden warily
To test
Myself, my pity, to see if anyone could know
Nothing, sky, sun, be blinded by the snow
While weekend Germans pilgrimed to
The eagle’s nest.
To forgive is human. I saw the stoic Germans,
A land
Peopled by apologies, by kids pitching to a catcher in a game
Learned from friends, by farmers growing the same
Good hops they used to grow. Had I the courage to pat
The red-nailed hand?
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