Everything feels right, everything
Feels complete, moths drink the tears Of sleeping birds, bears roam through Labrador, but even they are in arrears To the sun, to its quarks, to the photons streaming Through dark space, to its boiling core, To its coiling corona, to the bee that licks Turtles’ tears, to the lichen spore, The tickets to the museum of your own Elaborate thoughts, give them away, After all, you own a forest, an orchard, And a cavern with streaks of radium decay, In the evening, the sunlight is mauve, The sea is shadow, the air seeps Across the city, balconies, poplars, Muslin curtains blow, the baby sleeps.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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October 2019
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