All of the names in the world
Are too narrow for us: Fred, Ned, Ed, stumbling about in Too-tight jeans, falling, outspread, All of them pinched, stingy, None of them expressing The lava deep within, Burning, phosphorescing. When we say the names, We know that we shake The curtain that hides Within within, opaque Expressions of flesh And spirit. We recoil With pain, till the Fragrant sage rises from the soil.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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