The Blog

Towards the height of the mountain
Was the question of gifts
And who should get to keep them 

I sat between a downward slope—steep as no
—and a climb I couldn’t make except to crawl
I crawled on sand and sweated in my hat  

Though G-d believed I crawled for G-d
I crawled to know the height of my own rage
I carried myself I cursed myself up 

Slid down—and named the day adoption day
I didn’t bring my gifts to G-d 
I kept them all 

I crawled I stood I fell 
I kept them all

I admit it. I don’t know what kind of stone
is underneath us all. I’ve lived years here
but it tends not to come up in conversation.
Somewhere people stand on pink quartz
when they stand in their backyards, pink
gins in each fist, a pink sunset pressed
against the sky. That's nice for them.
New York City would be squat if not
for the granite beneath all those fashionable
people and even the mole people who live
in the subways and have all-white eyes.
Here the grass does okay. Snowmelt
sinks through. There’s a tallish building
every once in a while. Our cars are many
colors and so are our children's small
electronic versions of cars. But what are
we really walking upon? A seed bank
in Norway holds a repository in case of
global catastrophe. Even North Korea