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There is a tiny hole into which all things fall eventually,

a crazy density that holds light a prisoner.

And there are all the things you ever owned, but tiny,

and also, all the things you never owned,

because they were too crooked,

and too silly, and

they spoke,

and they



The imagination ambles down a path and lumbers towards us,

crooked and silly and curious: stumbles into

the black hole where Isaac Newton’s pyjamas

are trapped with yesterday’s left-overs.

Where light cannot escape even though

this place is so small

it may not even



And it cannot illumine either, is

reduced to atoms trying

insanely to leave at 9.46053

miles per second: a pretty

quick clip

for going


THESE JEWS                                           for MB,TB, and SB

These Jews

with dark beards

have befriended me,

-or mustaches.


They have what to say:

Their mothers Saran Wrap the living room,

their lovers can’t laugh but

wait for gifts,

round and fat like

a pear’s bottom

or an ass.


These Jews

with mothers who

drive to the supermarket,

construct their sons like

Erector Sets,

then convert their bedrooms into dens

“For the company”

-have found me.


With one arm flung out in the circle dance

of our grandmothers,

merchants’ wives in Kiev

who now call aluminum foil “silver paper.”


These Jews.

We give each other words,

round and fat

like a pear’s bottom

or an eggplant.

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