In A Market Dimly Lit

the bird that plucked the Olive Leaf

has been circling like a record never-ending in my mind

where the needle's worn the grooves too deep,

and scratched the wax that's blistered from the heat besides

so from any movement in the room-

if my cat walked by the arm skipped!

but to my surprise, my interrupting cat improved

a sound already so severely compromised

the needle's worn the grooves too deep

I'm a donkey's jaw on a desert dune

beside the bush that Moses saw

that burned and yet was not consumed

she's the silver coin I lost,

I'm the sheep who slipped away

we pray the fingers crossed

but you listen patiently anyway

I wrote a little song for you

with a melody I'd borrowed put to words that didn't rhyme

to repeat what you already knew

as the stones thrown at your window tapped a syncopated time

you kept a distance out of fear you'd break

but what good's a single windchime, hanging quiet all alone?

the music our collisions would make

is a sound that turns the road-that-leads-us-back-home

into Home.

the music our collisions make!

I had a rusty spade but I'm not the fighting sort

if I was Samson I'd have found that harlot's blade

and cut my own hair short!

then in a market dimly lit I come casually to pay

you see my coins are counterfeit

but accept them anyway

so spare me your goodbyes,

your waving-handkerchief-good-byes

given my tendency to err so on the sentimental side

I'll spare you my goodbyes,

the truth belongs to G-d,

the mistakes were mine