There can be no more than getting born today
What else is there what work is there at play Tremendous bundles of rock trundle down the slope Sometimes the fog stutters at two corners, to cope Together on the street at two am, then puff, disperse, Seep in shrouded white, stand beneath the sleep-silent terse Burst of drift, the wordless that, the braille drizzle swarm Surrounds each cat-eye street lamp, smudges an uncertain form, This and only this tonight, there is no more, Only see this gate, this fence, opal milky pore, Misty gray, cut-cold green, meets the black-edged night, Rolls into the valley, raises up its wings and sinks from flight.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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October 2019
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