Jerusalem — where the street’s name is my sister’s
Morning light is facing me
light that magnifies faraway
things into the steps right there.
I walk down watchfully
my suitcase wheels are jumping.
That does not matter.
I am here.
I don’t wish to wait
but the wait deepens
my wishes of getting
to the other side.
Things take long but
longness is enriched with eager
irrational excitedness. Why am I singing.
What makes my tunes different.
The only fear is not to be left
behind with the tourists.
I am not one who comes to explore
and watch.
I am the one being discovered,
the museum of lost thoughts.
The tie-dyed shirts stare.
That is how I want it.
My feet have blisters
from too many walks.
Re-walking too many little
lonely streets who wait for my toes
to say hello, I am well.
The windows drum lines that
pinch my cheeks.
I need to hear their voices.
What do the houseful children do
when there is nothing left
except for themselves.
I run and stop,
I’ve delved into a stone
too mouldy for my new shoes.
Black and white zigzags my brain
till everything becomes nightless.
That is when I know I’ve overtaken
the shortsighted puddles of plainness.
Every figure owns a stop.
Will they know if I stop too soon?
Where do I go.
Will lights turn red just for me.
I wonder?
The caps lock my knee.
I am towered with
dangling trees floating
in my hair.
The street’s name is my sister’s —
can anything be more close.
I forgot to think about that.
But when the trees start to sway,
something starts to swerve.
I cannot point out the turning point
of unbreakable air to wind.
The porch is locked — I imagine smashing it;
A locked porch is too heavy to look at.
The leaves have become the dirt.
I try to separate G-d things from others —
It doesn’t work.
Rules are sometimes right.
An alleyway stands on one leg,
how many feet have stopped there.
I can look into a cracked piece of
an ancient hatbox.
I stare at the owner, dancing on the platform
(I didn’t know before about hatboxes).
Nutshells strewn along dusty sidewalks.
When did they fall, and why do they matter.
Gold awaits me – tears me apart
into tiny scraps of writings. Can G-d fix me
or must I first notice
they’re handwritten.
I cannot look at this funny-looking wall.
Each brick is warped and unmatching.
I try to laugh; It’s a laugh that replaces
a gasp.
I walk.
Not slowly, just quick enough to
get there in time.
The few frightening womens’ cries
are overcrowding my sight.
I can peep — just enough to pray
and then I run backwards
overdosed with saintliness.
What can I do to keep this —
probably nothing.
I fall over my legs.
I need something to pull me up
the aching, echoing, slipping steps.
But it’s not only me.
All my brothers are waiting.
Walking on wooden legs,
withering in wonder.
When is it time to re-enter.
