I try to read, but the quiet in my mind is the silence of the grave
Still as the dust and the mist
Barren,
even the worms leave me be
I try to write, but my fists clench and my palms well with blood,
soaking the page before the pen can scratch out a fleeting moment
and I hope the seeds watered
never see the light of day
I try to speak, but my words are full of others
whispering to themselves
twittering like the birds of the meadow
scarred like the tree in the field
Tuneless, senseless
shattered beneath the chariot’s wheel
Chagall made war against the Cross, and rose higher than the angels, lashing fiery thorns in yellow and white
But how can I make war against the Moon, when I see her face in mine,
drifting between this world
and the next
I would build a tower to heaven,
if my tongue wasn’t already cloven to the roof of my mouth
on the banks of the River Charles
Too tired to weep
I would go back into the mountain
sink to the very pillars of the earth
and pull them down upon myself
If I were not so selfish
If I would not wake again
Always running
Always returning
but always forgetting
Always forgetting
A river flows forth from Eden
frothing as the bulls of Erez
hungry as the lions of Judah
deep as the coffers of Rome
murky as twilight lingers
between the suns on the sixth day
