Warriors cannot stop contemplating exile although they want only to sit
Hand caressing cheek dry eyes closed now because who wants to see
What happened since pottery was buried future hints no one holds
Without the clay handle of jugs we question such redness such brown cracks
So we become cracked earth racked with reasoning an arm flung over our past
What we want is such repose on naked knee uncovered by digging
Dirty clothes need to be washed thinking won’t find forefathers lost tent pegs
But I cannot stop this digging in the dirt to find the thinking Jew displaced
In the tomb of burial gifts we learn slowly alongside weapons and donkey bones
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The Ekphrastic Review
