Poem

As through some
distorting lens my eye
cannot see what
is there but only
what sits heavy
in my chest--dark
pluton of ancient
choices, thoughts formed
in the furnace
and through time warped
and bent and changed
and turned and now
looking new--but so so
old--the ore of the idol
that called Moses down
from Sinai to cast
the new law to the ground.
If only I could open
up to devour
this excess--like earth
consumed Aaron's
handiwork. That this core
of mine would vanish,
resolve, change itself--
the crooked lines made

straight and my darkness light.

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