Service I don’t mean plates
Or silverware But words or thoughts or memories Of smoky columns in the air And dogged faithfulness A sort of returning Surf, an empty castle Whose lights are burning, A strong donkey, a A mountain path, And numbers clustered in the brush, The bluff above their aftermath, These are the bricks that build delight That do not let it turn to plague Whose lines of foam are deep, intense, Tangled skeins that are not vague.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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October 2019
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