Sunday, September 28, 1997


inscribed in the book of life
battered pages, jagged lines, burdened stones
dwelling spaces
crushing places, words
decaying meaning, sound
an arrow of breathless fire shot to cripple
unfit the spark which conceived it
alone, alone, this is my shirah
let me be alone, this is my devir
isolation, the womb
the able grave away
from life

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