More on: Poetry

What is scared is what is present. Sacred. What is sacred,
clumsy finger. You walk alone like an executioner.

the psalmist attributes such steadfast grace
chiefly to the Holy One, who bestows

compassion so tightly bound to justice
that any effort to rebuild the world
requires both be lived in proper measure.

It’s no big metaphor

that our good aims have sunk to bad slapstick:
boat on the blink, the skipper doubly pissed

Eventually, all color

contracted into the tips of the cigarettes.
Small fires, big dreams, the business of spiders
and the bait slowly sinking.

I sat in synagogue Saturday morning staring up at the stained-glass
star above the bima, first through my left eye, then my right.

How much better versed I’d be / with wings spun / from sap of grass

My married friends have houses and backyards.
I envy their space, their gardened privacy,
but not their mortgage.

I think you should not be afraid

Let’s be grateful for doorstops.

The father makes coffee, weary and quiet,
as the child tries to imitate his grief.