That which is hidden in the cosmic brain
Comes out in crooked roads, where trucks
Carry staples to foreign communities,
Ergot in the wheat, an influx
Of tainted milk—they once found a kid
In its mother’s milk—and the exhaust chokes
The town and the people stumble into
Plate-glass windows—what a hoax,
That the trinkets are plated in silver dross
As fresh from the finest silversmith.
It’s because the dispatcher fell asleep
Or worse, his hand slipped, and with
That, the whole array of lights
On the grid changed, and there the trucks go
To Chile or to tribes. Look,
They eat the food, their eyes glow.
But you, even if your mind
Is filled with images of collapsed
Mountains, volcanic rubble, charred
Trunks, where life and sound have lapsed,
Recall, at any rate, Miss Mary
Mack, who had silver buttons all down
Her back, no doubt she strung pearls
Into a necklace and put on a crown.
Because I gave her a piece of my heart
She had my heart and I had a hole
In my heart. But the doctor said fine, I will fix it
Better than ever with a piece of a scroll.
Yaacov David Shulman