Wednesday, December 9, 2009


The beds are dry the clouds have blown
away from my sight. I thirst.
But there is nothing without to slake
this dry sponge that lies slack
on my teeth. Care and desire
have long since left. No living
streams well up within my soul
only my blood. Like slag that cools
it moves lethargic: slowly congealing.
Soon it too will dry up.
Like a prophet I search, groping
for an answer among fire,
wind, and power only to feel
a gentle breeze caressing my face
and to hear the qol elohim
(a whispered rebuke): "Why are you here?"

Previously published in Odessa Poetry Review, Fall 1988

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