‘The Holy One, blessed be he, wanders again,’ said
Jacob, ‘He is wandering and looks for a place where 
he can rest.’

Between the pages
a wren’s feather
to mark what passage?
Blood, not dry,
beaded scarlet on dusty stones.
A look of wonder
barely perceived on a turning face—
what, who had they seen?
Traces.
Here’s the cold inn,
the wanderer passed it by
searching once more
for a stable’s warmth,
a birthplace.