The Machinery of Forgetting Fears
In the ghetto of
my heart
birds fly
backwards
an old rabbi
claws at the knots
in his tangled
beard and as in
a scratchy
black-and-white filmstrip
the boy from the
orphanage
seeks the
shelter of his parents’ bed
and if you’re
awake like him
you can hear the
room
being lit by
heat lightning
also the
murderer half-hidden
behind the
pitted stone pillar
swear to
passers-by he isn’t there
