Having written every kind of poem,

proud ones and shy ones,

weak ones and divinely wise ones,

your pen remains suspended

in the indifferent air,

even though the birds you once set flying

still sleep upon the cliffs,

and your colours

have not yet lost a sparkle of the kingdom.

Until you discover in the sharp light of noon

that the poems are only

blind arrows sent flying

to the heart of an imagined

eternal city

and you are only a hunter

who has at last grown tired.

For  Israel Goor

I was a boat at anchor

in a pink fishing village in Maine–

not a wood-chip floating  palely

in black Bronx waters.

Nailed to a seat  in a stagnant coffee shop,

sipping  cola through a  straw,

I ignore my patches.

I can at least be courteous to myself.

A suspicious cloud in my eyes,

I disregarded in Jerusalem

my title to nobility.

In New York I am a threadbare jacket

hanging on an old clothes-hanger.