by Yaacov David Shulman
A cloud like a buffalo pushed its massive shoulders through the membranes of my dreams,
Dreams of valleys turned to liquid slow-motion torquing birds
And my heart went out
And came back into the street with its silence
Resonating the growl of morning car transmissions
And a dog bark of calligraphic yips
Springing against the swift stinging white paper.
No more falling into cotton mysteries,
Death has been gazing down from the high-rise apartment building
For two decades,
Sometimes we meet in the elevator.
Sometimes on the beach sandy pebbles press against my soles
And there is a rush of sound and chatter.
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