In a Market Dimly Lit

the bird that plucked the Olive Leaf
has been circling like a record never-ending in my mind
where the needle's worn the grooves too deep,
and scrathed the wax that's blistered from the heat besides
so from any movement in the room-
if my cat walked by the arm skipped!
but to my surprise, my interrupting cat improved
a sound already so severely compromised

the needle's worn the grooves too deep

I'm a donkey's jaw on a desert dune
beside the bush that Moses saw
that burned and yet was not consumed
she's the silver coin I lost,
I'm the sheep who slipped away
we pray with fingers crossed
but you listen patiently anyway

I wrote a little song for you
with a melody I'd borrowed put to words that didn't rhyme
to repeat what you already knew
as the stones thrown at your window tapped a syncopated time
you kept a distance out of fear you'd break

but what good's a single windchime, hanging quiet all alone?
the music our collisions would make
is a sound that turns the road-that-leads-us-back-home
into Home.

the music our collisions make!

I had a rusty spade but I'm not the fighting sort
if I was Samson I'd have found that harlot's blade
and cut my own hair short!
then in a market dimly lit I come casually to pray
you see my coins are counterfeit
but accept them anyway

so spare me your goodbyes,
your waving-handkerchief-good-byes
given my tendency to err so on the sentimental side
I'll spare you my goodbyes,
the truth belongs to G-d,
the mistakes were mine