חול

 

מוצאי שבועות, תשע״ד

גלות

On the eve of chol
the finite aftertaste of kodesh
evaporates on the tongue
washed out with the waters
of a malachdik shower.
Droplets of Godliness
wrung dry in a head towel.
Chet's oy's and ley's
fall flat on the carpet floor
and crumble into twisted fibers.

On the eve of chol
tucked under fleece covers
the moon sits tall on her milky thrown
and glares behind the window glow
on the glossy page of my calendar.
I cannot see the date.