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A wall.
A blunt wall of human backs, arms, legs.
A gray bulwark with white round stains.
A defeated army in a cave, before maneuvers,
Waiting for doors to open.
Not cages unlatched, in uproar.
No…
Hey, women, spotted with typhus and riddled with rakes of fingers
Across autumn heads of woe,
Are you fruitful? Do you multiply? How many times each?
In whorehouses? On floors?
In the stable? In…
Out of frayed sackcloth—breasts of filthy cataracts,
Like raw potatoes, branched with rooted blue veins.
What shall we trade? Salt? How much do you want?
There’s a dead child’s hat still here.
In…
Gate, open
doorsill, creep near.
Room, I’m here;
back to the cell.
Fire in my flesh.
snow on my skull.
My shoulder heaves
a sack of grief.
Good-bye. Good-bye.
Hand. Eye.
Burning lip
charred by…
Is it any wonder that the sick are so pure and tender,
gazing across vast distances, seeing things that no one else does,
staying up at night, and smiling in the darkness,
as they caress their beds…
The towering life of the towering city
Is burning in white fires.
And in the streets of the Jewish East side
The whiteness of the fires burns even whiter.
I like to stroll in the burning frenzy of…