Samuel Menashe

Of your fate Fast asleep On the bed you made Dream away Wake up late

Authorized, booked By my steadfast prose The dead I ghost write Shed shadows that shine With hindsight, hearsay— The last word is mine

I walk outside the stone wall Looking into the park at night As armed trees frisk a windfall Down paths that lampposts light

1 Is this writing mine Whose name is this Did I underline What I was to miss? 2 An upheaval of leaves Enlightens the tree Rooted it receives Gusts on a spree 3 Beauty makes me sad Makes me grieve I see what I must leave 4 Scaffold, gallows Do whose will Who hallows wood To build, kill 5 Blind man, anvil No hammer strikes Your eyes are spikes

The statue, that cast Of my solitude Has found its niche In this kitchen Where I do not eat Where the bathtub stands Upon cat feet— I did not advance I cannot retreat

Taut with longing You must become The god you sought— The only one

I am the man Whose name is mud But what’s in a name To shame one who knows Mud does not stain Clay he’s made of Dust Adam became— The dust he was— Was he his name

A- round my neck an amu- let Be- tween my eyes a star A ring in my nose and a gold chain to Keep me where You are *