Why are we here, bringing more boxes
Into the field? Unpacking, bit
By bit, this place can be surprising,
Broader than we thought, sunlit
Unexpectedly, home. Because
We have pushed at the doors that were closed before
K, we will carry in midgets, the wash,
The old journals, a janitor,
Perhaps an emperor. Even
The crows help out—they still stay crows
But in a different sky—a place
That draws its lines, its indigos,
From somewhere else. From somewhere else,
Or else becomes that somewhere else?
There is no way to know (as yet?).
And when will there be nothing else?
Yaacov David Shulman