The angels weren’t happy. My gosh!
They wanted to keep that door closed. Inside, there’s all the bric-a-brac, Electronics, their guts exposed. The city of the angels is built Of tarshish (beryl, or aquamarine). It has stood there for 6,000 years, They gather in the mezzanine, And they deplore, deplore! the messy Trace of man, the winner and The also-ran, who has free will, Freud, Mandelbrot, the manned Satellite, who builds a Temple And offers up his entrails to Be burned, who lives in the center of The earth and makes a rendezvous In Timbuktu, who fails in Peru, Regains his footing, finds his inner Zulu, slips back and forth through The cell wall and misses dinner, He stands by the highest lake in the world, Clutching a gecko. He puts down the gecko, He is slogging through the everglades, He hears a voice, or, he thinks, an echo.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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