To Volcano, with esteem

From a scorching cra-
-ter, a curl of smoke points up,

The tree of the field

A bang. A bang.
Bang. A chop. A saw. The tree
doesn’t care to fall.


Brilliant now, the
buried bones. But just wait for
what’s from the dry bones.

Or just zitsfleisch…

Wait forever, if
necessary, for the illed-
out moment. Amen.

Yom HaShoah

The bed/coffin swings
empty. Those that are made ash —
can they be buried?


So hot! Orange soda
— the Shechinah — bubbles
on ice cream. Shehakol.

Sefirah Style

The hair left to grow.
Animals: winter. In us
this estivation.