The sun the sun but cold cold cold. Like a cancer scalpel righteous and without heart watching dispassionate the lighted grass, turning the lead field to gold for how long five minutes or half a day, eternity really, as emails light on me like butterflies with tales of sadness joy tragedy and hope. Sun King, how long the benign grace of thy levee until it cools? I drove my Chevy. And the boon will be reversed. My hollowness in the cold morning resounds like a drum. The tea and the toast and the rhubarb jam do nothing and the concrete path feels hard and dry and gritty under my clogs. Messages of cancers messages of loneliness. Messages of probings into the dark chambers of unseen worlds and gropings for hope. Messages of forced play with children and triste trysts with desperate strangers pass through my head rustling like white moths. But my candle is cold and hardened as old heart muscle, the wax unmelted, the wick black but unburned. Nothing engages in this kind of sunlight; neither cruelty nor compassion. No blistering flame. No far-seeing light. I am far far far from it all. The wailing wall sweeps across my horizon daubed with black suited men in ringlets and diamond dealer hats and I have a cardboard yarmulke false as the pommes-frites platter covering my pate. Overhead the distant whine of an armed mirage. I was here in Safed for flying rabbis. I found only cedars and war planes. Better the flying rabbits of the Bog.
The wet pulls back in a receding tide gone out for a while now but the cold comes in riding the sunlight like winter ice around a pond. I have stones for organs and a drum for my heart, It beats, but without comfort.
The world was fuller when it was full of water. The rain pulled back like the curtain on a stage, revealing cold light, cold eyes watching, and every move pre-planned. The beans grow now, nutritious and slow. The courgette leaves rise like dry umbrellas simulating green cumulonimbus un-nimbly rising, waiting for rain. Flicker of wax-yellow blooms, still restrained, like the still garden.
They are earthbound. And the air tickles but does not delight them with its chill. No explosion of summer. Summer fizzles like a slow fuse, but the powder is damp. September walks past in dry moccasins imparting a shiver and the smell of winter. Leaves fall and crack underfoot. I feel not tired but cruel. And words like bullets click into the chamber and are discharged dropping their empty cases with a clatter on the hard ground, evidence but not of truth.
The wet pulls back in a receding tide gone out for a while now but the cold comes in riding the sunlight like winter ice around a pond. I have stones for organs and a drum for my heart, It beats, but without comfort.
The world was fuller when it was full of water. The rain pulled back like the curtain on a stage, revealing cold light, cold eyes watching, and every move pre-planned. The beans grow now, nutritious and slow. The courgette leaves rise like dry umbrellas simulating green cumulonimbus un-nimbly rising, waiting for rain. Flicker of wax-yellow blooms, still restrained, like the still garden.
They are earthbound. And the air tickles but does not delight them with its chill. No explosion of summer. Summer fizzles like a slow fuse, but the powder is damp. September walks past in dry moccasins imparting a shiver and the smell of winter. Leaves fall and crack underfoot. I feel not tired but cruel. And words like bullets click into the chamber and are discharged dropping their empty cases with a clatter on the hard ground, evidence but not of truth.
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