From thought and not just any thought,
From thought that’s hidden, and not because
Anyone hid it, come souls. Some
Are new, some respond to applause,
Some applaud, and some come looking
For the concierge—because,
Isn’t everything ready? Up there,
It’s all one, fingers and claws.
From the office that isn’t even an office,
Everything you can see is blessed.
All your friendships, plus the museum,
Beyond the clouded Everest.
Yaacov David Shulman