Friday, April 26, 2013


Where the hills meet the water in the distance
it's getting dark now and I can see the leaves are changing color from
Green to deep blue
Your hair seems lighter in the cooling air
Your lips are mellow
Your hands reach forward

To grasp the colors
Before the close of day

Friday, April 12, 2013

No D

I love to write.
I am a writer.
I am a writer without a language.

I dream in English, and count
in Hebrew.
When I feel lonely
I listen to my breath.

I am a photographer. Would I be
a photographer even if I had no
film? Yes
No camera? Probably.
No eyes?

My home?
My home is here.
My home is nowhere.
I can hold it firmly in my hand,
yet it is nothing but air.
No, not air;
no one can breathe my home.

No D

(Inspired by Mark Danielewski’s “House of Leaves”)

Friday, April 5, 2013

A certain something

I move away from you, I look away from you
My eyes averted, my attention elsewhere; anywhere but you
My voice is stable, my motions well controlled.  One
Would never know.  One could never tell
One might even guess the opposite
Not a trace of betrayal in my gestures.  As if nothing at all 
Nothing at all

And all this time
The warmth of your painfully-alluring chest is calling me
To sit in your lap, to have your arms round me, my head under your chin
The smell of you penetrate me

Was that the scent in my dream, when 
Your torso leaned back
Your sweaty skin against my breasts, glistening as if you just emerged from water

I say naught.  I do naught.  I say and do naught
In the face of this certain something
A skip.  A thump.  A skip, a thump, and a gasp—all at once
Even when our fingers slightly touched in an ordinary act of object changing hands; less then an inch, a few millimeters of skin against skin
Nothing much, really.  But

I quickly step away and walk into the crisp autumn air
To type these words
From the safety of my keyboard

Aching for more