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