On my third quest
up Yehuda HaNasi--
drop off, pickup, pickup again--
I want to believe
I'm the hero
of my own story.
I feel like the car.
Or the ass.
Giddyup donkey.
Pack apple squeezies,
and baby carrots, pack
crackers, nuts and tangarines.
They won't eat them anyway.
In other lands, women jump handsprings
with hair unbound.
In other lands, they video themselves
setting photos on fire. I look
at the gloaming gold
torching the trees. How it sets fire
to yesterday's puddles.
We play hide and seek
in the dry fountain
under fruit-bare lemon trees
I am not allowed to say
I see them
as they crouch
behind the wall.
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