the twinkle of brown spectacles. We walk slowly, softly,
a little confused, I remember well. The scrap of paper flutters
between us, creating in bursts a bond poring into thick,
crackling tomes never aroused. I blink, it’s gone.
I remember asking him about the death of John Lennon.
‘All great men,’ he told me, ‘find what they’re looking for
only once they stop looking.’
He stares at the scrap as long, whispering cresses of white beard
rustle through pulling hands. ‘You need a girl who will
challenge you, stand up to you,’ he deciphers. I cough, staring at my
sandals. Waylaid by the rustic heat of the swarming desert.
A thought achieves coherency as my toes
escape confinement, prodding the fine sand.
I don't have the backbone for this calling.
I'm aware of his muted presence beside me,
hushed, robed, waiting for an inquiry.
Once I sat in my favorite spot,
as the light, natural, dusty, filtered through
the open window, thinking how I'd dare not share
repressed questions floating through
desolate air. I turned to a friend
my muteness knows no bounds in the moment
I turned to my friend. 'What daf do you want to start'
from the beginning I would act. Act act act. No thought, not a sliver.
Now my future is determined through the squint of eyes
in the desert heat of a deserted moshav. I look at his face,
his beard, his stature. I know nothing more than what my scrawl imparts.
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