Visiting Israel
Visiting Israel
while you are in a coma . . .
Your eyes
are the language of butterflies
In the hard cackle
they, remember a word
(something like
a digital manipulation)
Your mind’s webspyder
hangs on a silver thread
Its lucid fandango is urgent
and stuttering
You try to catch a poem
in your bare hands
I wonder if you can
or, will you ever ?
In the corners of the wind
I fold a purple scent
The white stars of your tongue
are the pungent taste of Bethlehem
Israel, Israel;
Israel is the color of your skin
Stars, over and over
again . . .
Deborah Russell
|