All of these thoughts clump together,
Wet, black strands alongside A country road at two in the morning. First, how can they be pried Apart? Move the entire landscape Into another room. Add sunshine, Eyeglasses, generously wide Walkways. Add some eglantine, Now separate those revolting strands, Wait a while, you’ll see them shrink And pull apart. You’ll wonder how They ever pulled you into the sink Of overwhelming confusion (until Your only surcease lay in dreams Of sleep beneath a snow-white Frozen pine). The river teems With salmon, and those thick, black Strands are turning into dust, Particles of tar, of gold, Of crushed despair and self-disgust.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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October 2019
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