tonight         the black letters of Torah
against a blue black night

but no white, no words beyond the words,
no lover's whisper
no empty space to lie down

two times I cry out for more
but receive no answer

It's been forty years of wondering.
Why do chosen people wander?
Why read five books each year
and never make it to the land of milk and honey?  

It's been forty one years of wandering
and life is no less sweet than it ever was;
no less bitter;
no less biting or with less caress
than before.  

Why do chosen people wander?
Do they ever make it home?  

We take things apart like dressers,
like words, like wounds,
like last night's encounter  

when you thought you might lose everything
and for a moment you did.  

We keep building these temporary structures
made from well rounded metaphors
well meaning actions
and they fall  

like you did
right before you began to wander -  

right before you began to wonder
why chosen people wander so long in a wilderness
and if you will ever make it
to that sticky sweet land of bees and goats  

and will you want to stay if you ever arrive?