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.