Jerusalem
1995
Blessed be Hashem, for He has been wondrously
kind to me in the besieged city.
Tehillim 31:22
for Moshe Vineberg
Singing a very old song, telling a very oldDimensions of the ages open up when I see
the earthenware past and the continuation
of generations free from diseased cultures.
Now’s the moment, try to slow it down,
‘cause it’s short anyway, don’t let the light
blind your eyes, let it flow through you.
Take courage then, and face the city walls.
18 March 1995, Tel Aviv
The window to Jaffa is open, and all the stones
can fly in to tell me about Napoleon. He has
always been a mystery to me, so I listen carefully.
The park in the moonlight won’t come in, it likes
to be outdoors, which I understand as a smoker.
American cars are faster than Japanese, for sure.
My poetry and I live together in peace, like
happy end to a love story. The poems are strange
creatures though, they use swearwords, burp
and fart, and smell funny, ‘cause they screw all
the time and never wash themselves afterwards,
and they dont’t brush their teeth either.
Anyway, I think I’d better finish the poem in
this line.
O.K., that’s what we’ve got, some sort of a bitter smile,
a face slightly distorted, a mirror full of images in black
and white, or the footsteps burned into the tile floor.
My footsteps, me stepping through twenty apartments
in three continents, my head wading through clouds of
political systems, while people wanting to touch my cock.
It’s a shame, baby, not to love me (whoever and wherever
you are), it’s a shame, sweetie, not to touch me, a shame
not to let me come inside you, as if I was some stranger.
Redemption is communication without words.
i hate the pain it turns me off i hate this
fire in my mouth it stops me short of speech
i feel my heartbeat vibrate through my gum
to my ears in electric shock of blood boiling
pain the hysterical kid pushing against the body
pain the stubborn fucker makes me horny leaves
me wasted i can’t sleep, dream, i can’t take it
anymore it’s boundless it’s violently annoying
i’m flying out i’m flying out of the room
wild wild wind
and wild wild sea
o wild wild sun
and wild wild dark
and white white beach
and white white man
with wild wild soul
a wild wild whore
in a white white town
I may have revolted against America,
had my parents gone there in 1956, but
as a poet I got a good start in Budapest,
no matter how much I revolted there.
So here I am in Tel Aviv, searching for new
poetry, drawing in my sketchbook, listening
to the Rite of Spring by Stravinsky and
looking at an empty coke bottle on the table
Hollywood movies are edited in a hurry,
there are too many overlaps of time, should
there be more it would become art, but
so much money’s involved that they just
don’t know how to spend it.
The French poets painted their poems.
The German composers were visionaries
and a good performer can see the music.
Transmission by seeing.
The English poets used language in a way
that it transcended to prophecy.
The visionary tradition resembles the
experience of the Jewish people when they
recieved the law: “They saw the voice”.
Vision is the foundation of communication.
Philosophy is abstract vision.
Music is the vision of touch.
Art is the vision of the untouchable.
Poetry is the vision of the community
in the fields of the unknown.
These are the origins of Western Culture.
Lifting up and rolling, never ending, dreaming.
Seeing their thoughts, images to follow we all go
selling and buying, a piece of ass, guns, food.
Partaking, meddling, merging, emerging crowd,
fucking the machine by daylight, clothes on,
and eyes open, turned to the side, to the ribs.
Our children come from there, women screaming,
the birthpangs taking a hard toll on them, and we
can’t hear each other now, so we come closer.
written
to a friend reminiscing
right now in
this corresponding moment.
Two lines. They’ve become five.
And another
friend, as he’s walking away.
His steps
remember.
And me trying to look forward.
The chair,
the girls,
the pool table,
the
ball and
a hole.
A letter if you care.
only to clean the body), food or rest,
her thighs shining, the morning pleasure of
watching her from the balcony, the physical
desire, the joy of discovery and her window.
It’s like a dog howling inside me, like
thirst and hunger driving animals mad,
spring and bloodsugar trapping me in my
need, throwing me at the feet of would-be
princesses who want to clothe the emperor.
The girl doesn’t call, I’m sitting by the phone
all day like a moron, knowing it wouldn’t
make a difference if she did, there’s a problem
with my imagination when I wait too long
for something they want me to take by force.
Sometimes I think there’s a higher purpose, but
looking at the ancient features of your face
I don’t think there’s anything unusual going on,
only life dictates this march to war with the
elements, with demons, with the past, whatever.
This is the first time I’m really fasting.
My soul lingers between two worlds.
My body left the one and arrived in another.
It’s crawling on the rooftop.
Poetry has eaten up all my money.
I could be in heaven on earth.
Poverty is definitely hell.
I’m still between the two.
Necessity creates the vortex into which
I’m thrown time to time. The fence had
come down and there was the bulldozer,
it didn’t ask a thing.
Since then I’ve been floating and found
a bed to adorn with my body, a cover
from top to toe for the keeping of secrets,
and a sack of dirty clothes for the laundry
tomorrow, before sunset. And no house
to put this all in.
then blues came. my brother. then the killers came. it wasn’t nice you know. the supremacists. they’re pretty much down now though. i’ve got you babe. within that group. it ain’t exactly clear. this whole new explosion. watching the time rolling. seek for the new path. you must stay now Roger, you’re a great drummer. and usually dinner.
8 May 1995.
Tel Aviv – Gatwick Airport – Tel Aviv
It’s impossible to go away, to escape like Jonah again,
it’s better to wait and carry out the task of survival.
Too great a secret there is in my heart about us, heavy
luggage for flying, and this millstone around my neck
prevents me from swimming. I can hardly move anyway.
It’s a windy day, it rained last night, the town is filled
with tourists, I had a coffee this morning and smoked four
million cigarettes, one for each citizen, just to be in touch
with the land. A girl told me yesterday that something bad
was happening in the country and she wanted to paint
flowers on theWall. I’d like to come round, I said, but
my girlfriend had lost the key to my chains and ran home
to her mother to find at least one lock open. Yasser Arafat
mentioned Jihad in a speech, probably he can’t get it up.
Once I was a bird, but now I have a left and a right wing,
both broken and thrown on the floor of the departure lounge
Sharks have come to Jaffa harbour, the airport is busy now,
and the devil we know has planted a bomb in the engine.
Calm down,
the tourists are gone to hell,
you have no work to do as
you’re not in the city anymore.
Still
there’s food to eat, money
for coffee and cigarettes,
you have it all,
silence, sea, acacia and
olive trees,
cats in the bushes and alleys,
baklava for three shekels,
pizza for four.
Born male.
Been inside often
or not often enough.
Body exploding,
pores pulsating in hollow
rooms, the vacuum of the
night growing.
But her arms won’t let go,
her hands clutching time’s
fist, the punch.
Are we really stupid?
the spiritual movers
outside the words inside
the mouth of Rilke
some others just quit
cowardly hate for indifference
dead souls they are
balance is hard to find
when the pressure pushes one
low mouth full of sand
there’s the soul to
protect ‘til the time of release
touches down enough
let me go sweetie
let me go there where
there’s no rain
or a song instead
a word falling inside
time’s throat
let me stay here
let me sit in the armchair
and watch TV tonight
channel four i like
the movie about the man
who cannot die
i’m rooting the soul in
the flesh on Ben Yehuda Street
the best place for such things
enjoy my presence dear
as i dig yours i’m really happy
when you’re at home with me
i hope that guy who
called is not your boyfriend
i would be jealous
get me rooted in your flesh
walking on Ben Yehuda Street
with you i make sense
The Greeks found comfort in beauty under
the shadow of the Awesome. We can only find
comfort in each other, then beauty leaps forth
and climbs the ornaments of your face, your
eyes light up, and your mind. Yet, who am I
to tell you this? Didn’t you already know?
i heard my voice in the vestibule
it was echoing from the room it was
winter and it was cold in the
morning as I left the building with
my heavy load of loving you
a sack of good intentions i stole
for me it’s all free i love you
no matter what
a human face i’m drawing
a human face
Chinese or WASP me
or us the light on the face
just like the light the smile
or a moustache
a human face really happy
and free
and tough too
seduction always present
a child of the mind
dance or die
the nose supposed to be
big and
the eyes closed for example
it’s one way of looking at it
but no face in the end but
light if there is or doubt
who cares
it’s passion explosion
19 May 1995, Tel Aviv
The day is done. A day of work and worry.
A day is gone. Gone to the swers of the city.
Not sure if a moment remains in the memory
of my computer, only numbers, the mess of
voices, shrieks. A siren going off for the dead.
Memory, like music, lingers in the room of my head
emptied of furniture, not a place to go to bed and
sleep a good one for twenty years, no less.
Like the good things arrived in my life, someone
pushing them down my throat, so is the one
coming to trust me too quickly. Just a sec.
through the window the desert
night comes in
in the morning the shopwindows
protect some pedestrians from shopping
the rest lost connection
but the night is really something
blue light gets injected in our
bodies rays of recognition
free winding and curling
a woman is a woman
a man is a man how simple
habits inhabited by our love
ages and generations are making
love now they dwell in actions
they do good wordless
To make that thing happen
we’ll have to trade experience
for laughter, a hand for a
head and a bottle of coke
for arak. We put the TV in the
fireplace last summer,
the vases trembled like flowers
on a clearing. My mouth
opened to the wind from yours.
After we kissed for a long time,
it felt like winter again, like
the snow in Jerusalem. Do you
remember the cold wind?
Your kindness has taken over.
relative security a name in time
lazy kid hanging around in eternity
or in a game
far is the day
some hope for a trip in the future
some money he needs the demon
where and then and because
or something visual ornamentertainment
for example
Mozart had a lot of time in Mannheim
to write for instruments he didn’t like
he was prolific
make the mistake mightily go down
the concept of redemption
falling absolute falling could be
Buddhist or
avoid falling dance around it
and people depend on you double
switch when laughter dries out
go down mightily
people actually don’t depend on
you it’s only pride how could I be
so blind there’s a war out there
lies lies and lies the devil’s game
but yeah the jester survives
a seven-headed dragon leaps up from the bottom of
a scream
a cry
the monster in your teardrop-lake
grinning
no crying there but
sharp knives
hissing
each of us is a snake
unclean
sick with love-leprosy
they hate us outside and it’s boring
to fall out of love
I just can’t take you
serious
you’ve got to be kidding
and I’ve been had
and there’s no end to it and it’s time to eject high up
Here comes the devil to destroy the
next palace of thought, the monument
of Henry James, that looks like a statue
of Lenin in the Russian Far East.
Then music wipes out the street, the town,
takes away the pain of old houses rooted
beneath the sand. So it’s a basement,
four dead bodies in the dark rubble.
Peacetalk, political solutions. Strange
games of war nearby, on my doorstep,
ha-ha, ha-ha, says he, the bastard,
because it’s his nature.
(from the horror series)
i can hardly keep my eyes open
i can’t see five meters ahead
sleepy soul grinning like a kid ten
years of age coming home from
school it’s time to eat and play
in the park mother yelling
homework undone who gives a shit
i see nothing i know nothing
without tapping the fountain of
blood the castle’s empty your
neck is dry the victim lost
come back to my arms i want
to kill you or keep you alive blood
redeems the killer for awhile
The song is a weapon.
A fight is a fight, a war
is a war, a book is a worm,
a hand is a touch, it glorifies
itself, the self is a shell
and a womb is a baby on
your arm, the baby is the
intercourse, the lubrication,
the great fluid, the void
in which one realizes oneself,
a return.
to say it all or not to say a thing
how about translating silence how
about your fingers running on my
back instead of ordering me to crawl
through debris again please shut up
move gently among the coke bottles
they might break and what then
you’ll be sorry my child skin singed
and the search for illusion worn you out
nine times no hurry take it or leave it
can’t stop writing epitaphs no one
will take them serious it would be
easy if there was one only there is
let’s do something else
violently beautiful and alive
the past is pain the war is over
who’s to win the peace?
on a sunny day in the sea on
an island long ago she said
man you’re alive you’re beautiful
let’s do something totally
different like UFOs and flying
cabins in a sunstroke vision
get drunk and it’s not even Purim
yet
having a good time shooting
elephant in my pyjamas
those who seek their redemption in
romantic love are truly lost
or politics trying to inject happiness
in our veins ingeniously commercial
fear cancer so shut it all out
saccharine 60s my house is my
mask no kidding that lady
at the ulpan i’m telling you
she was mean
waekness o seduction is
going on here big time
freedom is not for free
attaining the truth suddenly is
intelligent
persue divine madness
total consciousness of action
knowledge of doing
the chainsaw killer and the noise
pushing away pain for expectations
crumbling to dust after flying
high the new moon anew
and we dropped the bomb why
to stay on this planet frightened to
death oneness and duality as
we’re turning east start making
a loop a tighter one this time
though it feels wider there are so
many phonecalls between countries
collect
towards Jerusalem
facing the truth and speak it out
demanding special treatment
for the merit of action
going into the past without getting
lost (memories found)
separating the right from the wrong
though ultimately they connect
it’s a question of elevation
which floor are you on?
slaves of time
old-new country the sudden
recognition and the stupidity
the devil overthrown
in the prison of your embrace though
it still remains a prison
nothing is happening in the core
take my luggage and go live on the
razor’s edge love is essential
if it’s a dead end no U turn
i went down fighting i’ll go up
fighting a slave of time
to proclaim victory is too romantic
i’m keenly aware of cycles and different
time zones it’s a trap anyone can fall into
while breaking the wall in G major
precious time in eternity it’s quarter to three
someone will arrive at some point i’ll do
this and that later sitting cross-legged i won’t
do nothing but sleep till one in the afternoon
in the very center of language and at the very
end of being able to speak on the border line
the jerusalem underground is something else
an allience with the spoken word and thinking
in depth like at the broadview swimming pool
some time ago what’s the depth of it not the
lenght because i’m dependent on time in some
really existential way do you hear me israel
hungary canada i’m already there
separate illusion from reality how is
everything how it isn’t the first time
alone it’s fine and dandy OK but even
my student is late or not coming at all
each day i come down here from the
mountains like a savage to climb the
shalom tower like king kong the
empire state building like that woman
standing on the top of my head like a
statue of slavery called freedom
i’ve got a sparrow a dog and a cat
they come and go anytime they want
o love let me go
let me heal
i’ve cried enough
i cried too much
let me go o let me go
it’s time for me to go
open the door
now i’m afraid of your embrace
now i’m quiet as silence
now i know who i am
you can’t take me away from me
because people submit to violence
and then become violent themselves
some have vision and money too
and people around them why i have
none of the three? what’s going on?
and the pain again it has returned
from where and how i don’t know
strong be strong don’t fight with people
whose faces you can’t see they don’t show
stand back once again and help others
do the fight for you no matter what
it’s terrible to be exploited humiliated
and degraded every day for a moment
it makes sense then a feeling of foreboding
and then the widening cracks on my face
in the mountains in the park
in the post meridian shade forever
playing beach tennis on the grass
i’m whistling no one can hear it
i’m stoned no one can see it
antisocial couples like reggae
(hand in hand her hat on he’s barefoot)
i’ll have fun in the brazilian sunset
and i love my family and my friends
i feel funny when time stops and it happens
every week more than once i’m all right
“i love my dog as much as i love you”
flies drink milk when they’re little
and drown in ink when they grow big
sparrows feed on flower seeds and shakes
8 July 1995, Jerusalem
no in-betweens
straight down the line
the one you’re with
or the hostile ones
so one invents
a home with a dog
and now all the friends
can come and stay
what if she calls? tell
her that she’s already
here with me and i
don’t need her to call
i want to look in her eyes
be face to face soul to soul
no in-betweens
straight down the line
The guardian of the spirit
-- angel of the house? --
came
to visit
and we talked over
long psalms except the longest
for lack of patience
and because it wasn’t necessary
well it’s the same about ceremonies
but i know i’m privileged to live here
the destruction out there is unspeakable
and it’s so good to be protected
at last
for awhile
and what can happen soon or later
will
believe me
This war will never end as it
has never begun. Look at my dog
hiding in the farthest corner of our
house. Some violent noises made
her flee. For us here, nowhere to go.
The protection of the mountains or
the privilege to live in this place called
heaven’s door exposes us to hell,
whenever the key turns... We’ve
had enough of violence and deprivation.
Help me stop the stream of pain inside.
How can I hope to see it stopped, out –
here?
someplace somewhere
langue hurts sometimes
on a bus or by the park
downtown as i hear you
speak in unknown tongues
the beautiful little girl just
sat next to me this afternoon
she was smiling when i asked
her name in broken hebrew
for she knew i forgot mine
she left as she arrived
the angel with a backpack
the tiny blond miracle of
the day a fleeting kiss
taking all my ships at once
white red blue and green
i’m barefoot
the floor all stones
old and cold
the nether regions hold water
a constellation which looks
like a man human if you like
high in the sky low in the hole
the date today is eternity
so let others play too tomorrow
i’m going to quit the game
if you can read this poem right
(there are rules) for example
the last word of some of the
lines should be read twice
and so on as the angels appear
one by one androgynous and
barren but the seventh
New revelations correct my way.
You confront me and it’s good,
because it makes me confront you.
And yet to break the pride, for which
one must be broken. It’s been done
so. Moreover, it’ll be.
The eye piercing the spot on my ceiling,
the unpainted deep spot for the Temple.
I live beneath the eye. I live in the eye.
And the pain. The loss. The beauty.
The night and memories of the day.
Some hostility.
The hatred to overcome: to be overcome
by the right, standing up.
Fear makes war.
You want to find an enemy, but
it’s inside. So you’re turning inside out.
And you think the sky dark, when it’s
only dark. And you say the sun is hot.
Is it? Get closer to it, you’ll find out.
Here in Jerusalem many girls wear T-shirts
with “Sexy” written on them. Are they,
really? Or only the cover, only the word?
I don’t believe it, and I don’t believe my
new acquaintances saying sex is wrong.
I’m neither a believer, nor a psychologist.
My failures have been successful, carried
out, completed. Music comes from heaven.
Poetry gets lost between your thighs.
I’m lost between two worlds of words:
one is a list of names read outloud in
midnight whisper, the other is another.
The last time we were together (when
was it?) you said (what did you say?)...
Yes, you accused me that I didn’t have
an object. That I said something that you
said you didn’t say. And we had a big fight.
Thank God, we didn’t break any plates.
When booze is cheaper than food, we know
there’s trouble in the land.
Intoxication. I-i.
Don’t move. Want.
Walk. To finish.
Run. This book.
He has no cigarettes left and he
smokes on credit. He eats on credit.
He cannot leave his place and he
doesn’t. He’s not obedient and his
friends are poor. His dog has two
masters, one detained, one deported.
Six turns to nine, he don’t mind, he
don’t mind. He charges fees.
With holy impatience, he writes.
He’s the lover having a good laugh
at the pious jumping off the sidewalk
at the sight of his beast (and they
haven’t seen the one in his trousers).
He lives in Barbados, rearing nymphs.
Listening
and listening to the waves
in the cistern
below,
i’m the stone falling
deep
in a dream where you’re not
there, where i’m here and
you aren’t.
Where is your sweet voice
consoling the night?
Whose room are you making
happy?
I miss you hard,
two stoneballs rolling in my
body
day and night
-- your hair,
can let me go
can heal me
can cover the bald head
of pain.
My wanderings were long and beautiful.
Only the physical distance hurt, so i embraced
the road. Leisure: the thick body of music.
Fulfillment, disintegration. Assemblage and
obedience. The medusa of desire.
Today i heard a man singing an aria in front
of a bank. Time’s short and i have no culture.
Like an old man, i think about sex all the time.
You think i’m sick.
On the train to Madrid i drank brandy at 8
in the morning. Independencia. Sometimes
i love the past. Sweet love of children.
And i keep on writing all night long. Now
that the curtain is drawn i simply miss you.
My dog dreaming, her paws gently moving
as if the wild could be expressed by the soothing
only. Quicksand shifts over real suffering.
The parliament passed a bill to shoot a tunnel
through,
build a new park,
clean 1/3 of the streets
and so on.
But my best friend’s girlfriend made a grave
mistake by sleeping with my best friend’s best
friend, who’s not me.
There’s no love in ignorance.
Poetry makes no sense at all,
no tunnel through,
no park with fountains,
no city, only dirt.
When he’s happy he doesn’t write.
From now on I’ll be quiet. I’ll let
my dog bark at the village idiot banging
on doors, yelling “Moshe, eyfo atah?”
I’m not crazy about my neighbours.
They don’t speak to me, just ask
questions like “What do you do?” or
“Why did you come here?” Poison.
Tomorrow is the Ninth of Av. Will I
survive the destruction? I build the
temple every night, but my brothers
cinically hammer it apart each day.
I’m bored. Can you imagine God
trying to take care of us while we
keep turning away?
Stupidity, I piss on you.
All fluid, steady pain i can’t identify.
Falling one more time inside the roses’
thick smell, then arrival — where have
i been? I never left this town, o i never
came here. What did the girl want?
She shared joy with me, there was no
language, no music, and no, there was
no touch. Once again, no touch. Why?
Sweet heart. I’ve given you all for
nothing. I’ve given you seven songs.
But that was long ago. The illusion is
gone, everything is black and white, this
new dawn of gipsies. O save me!
I have spoilt my children, and I have
denied them the principle, the discipline.
For a moment it was true, but it vanished
in one second.
I know nothing. They’ve won the war.
The most terrifying thing that is. I can’t
be envious. It’s a punishment to win
every war. Once one must give up, just
one single time. It’s inhuman otherwise.
Flesh and blood don’t know, mind and
spirit don’t feel. Solely soul. A mirror
may break, a door can be stolen. My ship
almost ready, soon the tale is finished.
Why? Why-why. That’s why.
Tree. Mountain. Rapefield. Snow, wind.
Inside the velvet night, bricks, velvet.
Stones lay heavy in our bonfire, heavy
and hot like the air. My visions are dying,
and I’ll give them proper burial, to
distinguish them from my illusions.
Every Christian must become a Jew,
and every Jew must become a Christian.
Moslems should be given equal rights.
Lose this bloody war for peace.
The toy soldier I found, started shooting
rubber bullets. The High Priest ordered the
public stoning of the police headquarter’s
chief who was found smoking hash.
Nobody cries in Tel Aviv in the summer,
because it rains only in the fall when Rosh
Hashanah comes: we begin in tears
and end up reaping dust in our eyes.
I learned to be indifferent to religion for
all the good reasons. “There are no problems,
only solutions”, sang John Lennon not long
before he was shot down. He was damn right.
The voice of the Talmud sounds like
the scream of a butterfly. God told us
a few do’s and don’ts, no more. And
you wouldn’t ask why? Too bad. The
Temple thrice went down the drain, and
you wouldn’ ask why. Keep praying,
brother, to your TV with a kippa on top,
the prepuce of your mind.
for D. H. Lawrence
He was happy in the end, drifting
through space with life in his book,
only his body was gone. Derelict,
he tried to pull himself together,
make new life from scratch.
With intense religiosity, penetrating
reason, with overwhelming emotion,
with a body in the flame, he was
nothing. And it pleased him so.
But the machine, the people en masse
moving about in the snowfield, the
city all silent. And the sun and other
planets, magnetic balance, invisible
circles of light. Then the circus, and the
lonesome eyes of elephants lit up at
the sight of children sitting around
excited, then a clown, laughter,
then an acrobat, the sommersault.
My loved and beloved ones, they’re all
sleeping in one room. And I’m up, to wake
them when the time comes. I’m playing
music in the meantime. How will it be?
Which way? The poet is a hunter staying
up all night, a friend of cats, dogs and horses
too, for he’s to be ridden on sometimes. Not
as if he was ever asked whether he wants to
be like this. Just like the blues, he’s spinning,
till one day he darts out. Nowhere to be found.
‘Cause when you peel off the skin you want
to leave. When the moon punches in your face
with a full blow. When you’ve found it out,
it ain’t funny at all. That’s it, damn it, move on.
through the years
we wrote in tears
not in ink
through the white
translucent
is the eye
it has been
it will be
ninety-five
and the years
one by one
come in sight
in the side
missing rib
has been found
we will see the establishment of
a new peace a new piece will be
introduced in the body of our
society currently falling apart
the next three years will see it
time is a substance it has got
a body destruction takes place
outside space is there such(?)
now we’re afraid of war action
reaction peace if it was above
it would be below now i’m blind
this whole affair’s out of my hands
they’re messing up the planet
so what
i don’t care
i’m messing up my body with
my habits
and it keeps me busy
the morning looks like
a lonesome kibbutz
o baby
the year two thousand
will find us
in bed sleeping
peacefully through the night
the panther comes
he’s my personal symbol
from morning till night
from evening till morning
till afternoon i’m dealing
with you in good faith
good fate has no choice
which i don’t accept it’s
a lie and of course you call
me a false prophet but i’m
neither a prophet nor a priest
i’m a man full grown
i have a bank account
and i’ll soon want to get a
car to drive up north with
when i’m sick and tired of
your bloody face morning
of a workday working there
is no secret anymore the child
hold my hand
my fingertips dipped
in tears
the poet knows only
love and doesn’t
survive the saying
which is light
only the light lives
slipping through our
fingers folding
holding
two sunsets
one by the sea
one by the land
30 August 1995, Tel Aviv