Hi All, This is an excerpt from a long poem I am working on--it's about 10 pages right now and I am beginning to see that it's coming to an end. But I think the beginning holds together rather nicely. I'd be curious to hear what people think. Two notes: 1. NCSY=National Congregation of Synagogue Youth 2. Shabaton=a Sabbath celebration, which means from Friday night until Saturday night and sometimes Sunday morning, sort of like a retreat weekend. Thanks, Richard from Until I'm Falling Into Emptiness I watch you walk away from the first sex we've had in more months than either of us would want to admit to, and you don't hear the breath that catches in me at the light shining from the full nakedness of your back, as if your skin had taken in the long brightness that held us as I held you holding me, and now that the sun has moved past our window, it is your body that illuminates this room; and from the garden downstairs that is a garden I have carried in me since I was younger than the little boy we made (whose time at camp granted us these hours, and we made him here, on this bed, on Valentine's Day, and since we had not stopped to calculate the months, as you at first had said we must, his birth began just as you put the first piece of the cake I'd bought to celebrate the day you were born into your mouth, and your parents, too, are out of the house, gone to learn on 37th Avenue the English they will need to survive here, now that here- this land, these rooms-is where they make their home); from that garden, children's laughter, an adult's call to someone not to swing so high and the same squeak from when I was Shahob's age of the swing itself, a rusty metronome keeping the beat of my life in Jackson Heights, where I never thought I'd live; from that garden, the sound of my own voice calling to me from thirty seven years ago (my father living the life that led him much further from me than I'm sure he ever thought it would take him, my brother still alive and innocent, and my sisters not yet even seeds in the future my mother and the man who'd be their father had just begun to imagine, and his name was George, but at home we called him Dad: my mother's revenge for I'm still not sure what my father did to deserve it); that boy, I know his voice, and I know he's calling me, but it's as if he speaks a foreign language: my name is the only word I recognize; the rest is a song he's singing, a melody I start to hear as one of those we sat in a circle and chanted at each NCSY shabaton I attended, and I know that isn't possible, because the boy in the garden has not yet had to face the choice he will later think he has to make between the path he will be taught the "one true God" he would believe for many years was whom he had to please to purify himself wanted him to take and the one he wanted for himself-but even then, in the garden, he knew he was stained; and one path, the rabbis would say, the one his Jewish soul was yearning for, meant resurrection and the world to come, while the other could only mean that death was death; from that garden, in that boy's voice, the root of each choice in love that I have made, and I have chosen here and how with you, but here and now is also there and then, and there and then, and her and him and them, because this love with you contains them all.