with a nice ankle, a luscious
lower lip won't make up
for a running sore, and above all, nobody
ever promised you justice, that's not
why you were
chosen.
All you have to know is
that a beautiful shoulder is God, sure,
but a twisted leg is God, too,
and pimples and crooked noses and bad teeth,
because God is our dark
reflection in a glass, one part heredity,
one part environment.
So
up here, getting this four-star view,
1 hear the voices of God on every side,
all
hustling me - Hang in there,
it's your big scene - and I call out
to every Godlike wart,
to every sacred boil and pustule
(the nails tearing at my hands),
I call to every divine breast,
to every holy quim on this hill of skulls:
Why?
Why
have
you
forsaken me?
Daniel Wolff
THE THINKING BETWEEN TWO WAVES
I'm dreaming a dream a clear as glass
when a handful of pebbles hits the window. The morning
shudders and breaks. I look out through the holes
in
my sleep to see you: standing alone in the street.
Your soft hair glows. You wave.
