Samuel Menashe

In a doorway Staring at rain Simple withstands Time on his hands

Sharpen your wit— Each half of it— Before you shut Scissors to cut Shear skin deep Underneath wool Expose the sheep Whose leg you pull

Here and there White hairs appear On my chest— Age seasons me Gives me zest— I am a sage In the making Sprinkled, shaking

Stone worn Overgrown Pristine thorns Sheep shorn Tinkling below Roofless walls Rooks overlook I told you so Babbles the brook

For what I did And did not do And do without In my old age Rue, not rage Against that night We go into, Sets me straight On what to do Before I die— Sit in the shade, Look at the sky

Let’s make believe I am happy, I laugh Black poison, all of me Its bottleful, Become sparkling water

A pot poured out Fulfills its spout

The niche narrows Hones one thin Until his bones Disclose him

Ribs ripple skin Up to the nipples— Noah, equipped, knew Every one has two— This ark I am in Embarks my twin

Before long the end Of the beginning Begins to bend To the beginning Of the end you live With some misgivings About what you did.