The desire for many gods,
The snails clustered in their Thousands on the bending stalks Of grass, are a careening prayer, They are Pluto and its compatriots, They are the scribbling of a spastic Hand, the scratching of a branch, From the silent core, bombastic Sputtering, and when you see One cloud above the wall of rain Sweeping across the valley, Tree sap, leaves shadowing the terrain, Then everything is encompassed: The fat wheat grain of the field, The nesting storks, the row Of moss where the wounded earth healed.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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October 2019
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