Every now and then, I make it a point
to go without knowing to these places,
aim to discover things for myself,
develop a view of my own, be surprised,
have an experience uncluttered by history or the facts.
In the end, I try to imagine my way to a bit of truth
or to the answer for some awkward childhood riddle
like we used to in the summer at Wildwood.

I went to Giza once this way,
entered the wind-dusted space,
dodged the thronging hawkers,
slid sideways past the shirtsleeve tugs
of the harried, pleading guides
as they offered to sell me their
knowledge for half a day.

I lingered at Cheop’s boat, counted the oars,
thought of his trip to the longer side of eternity,
measured the foot print of the pyramids,
climbed on a few of the metered blocks,
wondered how long they had been there
how much longer they would stand,
considered the angles and the four sides,
puzzled over whether they could
have been built with only three.

Then I shuffled the underside of the sand,
exchanged smiles with the camels,
complained with them about the heat of the day,
curled my lips and bared my teeth as they do,
remembered the crumpled sepia portrait of my
grandparents riding theirs fifty years before and,
finally squinted into the west-leaning sun
as the day began telling me to leave.

I went to Giza once this way and failed
to find the Sphinx coyly haunching
just beyond the brown edges
of the afternoon shadows there,
a little down and to the left of where
my ignorance had taken me that day.